


Misdirected Mail

by LonghornLetters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Case Fic, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-05-09 16:42:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5547722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LonghornLetters/pseuds/LonghornLetters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's newest case involves 40 mannequin heads and a mess of red hair dye...oh, and some murder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blame the Postman

**Author's Note:**

> This is based around one of those "imagine your OTP meeting" scenarios that float across my dash from time to time. It's been lost to the depths of tumblr-dom, but it runs along the lines of imagine your OTP meeting because one of them has ordered something bizarre, but it's been delivered to the other by mistake. 
> 
> This was my 2015 NaNo project, and now it's here for your enjoyment.
> 
> MASSIVE thanks to Kestrel337 for her soundboard/beta/cheerleading. This would never have become so polished and complete without her.

John could tell the mail carrier was new by the knock, or rather, by the hesitant tap on the street door.  When he didn’t hear his downstairs neighbour come out to answer the door, John pasted a smile in place as he trudged down his stairs and jerked the door open, “Yes?”

“Oh, erm, delivery for you, sir,” the carrier, who was still practically a kid, stammered, holding out the electronic signature pad along with the rest of John’s post.

“Delivery?” John asked.  He shot a look over the mail carrier’s shoulder at the two, rather sizeable boxes sitting on the pavement behind him.  “I haven’t ordered anything recently.”

“I don’t know, sir, I just take things where the label says.”  He shrugged and waggled the pad at John a second time.

“How much bloody flat-pack does one person need,” John muttered as he tucked his mail under his arm to scrawl his signature across the tablet and hand it back.  He grimaced at the thought of hauling both huge boxes up the stairs and into what was now just his flat until Mary could come and fetch them.  “Can you help me bring this in?”

The mail carrier grinned sheepishly and shook his head, “Sorry, sir.  Liability.”

“Nevermind,” John waved him off.  “I’ll manage.”

He nodded, “Right.  I’ll leave you to it.”  A brief wave, and he was gone.

John watched him walk away down the street then turned back to the boxes still sitting on the pavement and sighed.  He never would have fought so hard for the flat during the divorce if he’d known it would mean he’d be taking delivery of Mary’s odds and ends for the rest of eternity.  She’d been using their - his - flat as a drop box for her things for three months now; long enough that he felt confident her behaviour had moved beyond minor inconvenience and into annoyance.  Well, nothing for it; he would rather deal with dragging her boxes inside than with the shouting match a lost delivery would inevitably instigate.  He dragged the boxes into the entryway and fished his Leatherman out of his pocket so he could see what Mary was bothering him with this time.  He slit the first box open, but instead of cartons of flat-pack furniture, ten severed mannequin heads stared up at him from the inside of the box.

“The fuck is  _ this _ ?” John growled, lifting a head out of the packing material.  Painted-on eyes regarded him unblinkingly from behind the protective layer of cellophane that proudly proclaimed it to be covered with 100% real human hair.  He dropped the head back into the box with its fellows and quickly slit the second box open.  

“What in the bloody hell is going on?” he asked the empty entryway as he lifted out another mannequin head from the second box, this one with what looked like a rather squashed afro...also 100% human hair, according to the packaging.  This had to be some sort of practical joke.  He dropped the second head back into its box and pulled the flaps of both boxes over to check their labels.  Both of them said the same thing:  

> Ship To:
> 
> Sherlock Holmes
> 
> 221B Baker Street
> 
> London
> 
> NW1 6XE

Well, that was simple enough.  221 was just across the street and a couple doors down, right next to the cafe he usually stopped at for coffee on the way to work.  He folded the flaps of both boxes in on themselves and pushed them out of the way against the wall.  He would just go and see what kind of lunatic ordered 20 mannequin heads off the internet.

A quick trip and he was standing in front of 221.  He pressed the buzzer for the B flat and heard it ring off inside the building.  A few minutes passed, but no one came to answer the door, so he rang the bell again.  A few minutes more and still nothing.  The third time he rapped the brass knocker smartly against the smooth black wood.

A petite woman who looked old enough to be his mum finally opened the door with a benign smile, “Can I help you?” 

John smiled back, trying for what he hoped was open and friendly, “I’m looking for a Sherlock Holmes.”  

“Of course.  Come right in.”  She started up the stairs, “Did you ring the bell for him?” 

“Um, yes, but there wasn’t an answer.  If he’s out, I can just leave a note.  I don’t mean to be a bother.”

She flapped a dismissive hand at the offer, “No, no.  He’s here.  You just come right up.”

“Sherlock,” she called into the first storey flat, “You’ve got another one.  Looks like your website’s picking up at last.”  She led John into a sitting room that was a study in disordered eccentricity.  Books, papers, and scientific detritus littered every horizontal surface with no visible rhyme or reason.  A sleek leather chair crouched next to the fireplace across from a forlorn wooden chair that looked like it had been dragged out from the desk to make room for company.

“I don’t need another one, I’ve already got one,” a posh voice shouted from the kitchen.

“Just come out here and be polite, young man,” she scolded.  “He stood out there and rang your bell, so the least you can do is see what he wants.”  She pointed at the wooden chair, “Sit there, dear, he’ll be out in a moment.”

The man, who John assumed had to be Sherlock, came in from the kitchen, pulled off a pair of safety goggles, and settled himself in the leather chair across from John.  “Mrs. Hudson,” he asked, “has the mail carrier come round yet?”

“That new, sweet one?” she asked.

“I don’t know about sweet,” he answered, “But I do know he cares more about finishing his route quickly so he can flirt with the new barista at Starbucks than actually doing his job correctly.”

She giggled, “Oh, Sherlock.  He’s young.  We’ve all skived off work before to flirt with a pretty face.”  She patted his shoulder on her way into the kitchen, “He came by a bit ago, but I haven’t sorted it yet.  If you tell me what it is, I can bring it up with your dinner.”

“You’d have noticed this,” Sherlock muttered.  He waved his hand dismissively, “Fine.  I’ll figure it out.”

Mrs. Hudson patted John’s shoulder encouragingly, “You just tell him your problem and he’ll sort it right out.”  With that, she vanished back down the stairs and John was left to face the recipient of 20 plastic heads.

Sherlock regarded him silently from his seat, head cocked to one side, “You’ve already finalised your divorce...several months ago, so you’re not here for that…”

“You what?” John asked, taken aback.

“Your divorce.”  He blinked at John, assessing, “It wasn’t infidelity...I’d say...disagreements stemming from your military service, but--”

“Look, mate,” John interrupted, feeling the little bit of his remaining patience slipping away under Sherlock’s eerily accurate scrutiny, “I’m not sure who you are or what you  _ think _ you know about me, but I’m just here because I’ve ended up with a great mess of mannequin heads addressed to you sitting in my front hall.”

Sherlock perked up instantly, “You did?  How many?  What coloured hair?  When--”

“Whoa, whoa,” John held up his hands to forestall Sherlock’s barrage of questions.  “Yes, I’ve got them.  I think there were 20 or so; it looked like there were all different colours.  I only actually looked at a couple of them.”

“Excellent!”  Sherlock jumped out of his seat, but John stayed sat where he was, unable to comprehend what sort of person would be so excited about receiving a score of mannequin heads.  At the door, Sherlock turned back, “Come on, then.”

John rolled his eyes and stood to follow Sherlock down the stairs and out onto Baker Street, “I live just there,” he said, pointing at his door.  While they waited to cross, John squinted up at Sherlock against the late afternoon sun, “So, you were expecting these?”

“Mmm, yes,” Sherlock hummed as they stepped off the pavement.  “Experiment.”

When nothing else seemed to be forthcoming, John prompted, “What kind of experiment?”

“Would you like to see?” Sherlock asked with a smirk.

John pulled his keys out of his pocket and let them into his entryway, “Um, sure, I guess.”  He pointed at the boxes, “There they are.  I could help you bring them over, if you like.”

Sherlock smiled and hefted one of the boxes, “That would be excellent.”  He glanced over at John with an expectant eyebrow raise, “Thank you…”

“John,” John answered with a nod as he picked up the other one.  “It’s no problem.”

Sherlock’s grin widened, “Come on, then, John.”


	2. All Sorts 'Round Here

Back at Sherlock’s flat, John let the box he’d carried over drop onto the sitting room floor with a soft thump.  He straightened and allowed himself to take a closer look at the odds and ends littered around.  A stack of what looked like forensics journals lay on the desk behind an expensive looking laptop and a notebook that Sherlock had left open facedown on the desk next to the laptop marked the page where he’d last left off.  John picked up the notebook to see what Sherlock had abandoned midstream, and he found a beautifully detailed drawing of a snake’s mouth open to strike its victim with detailed notes about potency and the delivery of venom around the edges.

John put the notebook back down where he’d found it and strolled over to the display cabinet shoved in the corner.  Sherlock had several full colour prints of poisonous plant diagrams in there along with a delicately engraved samovar and a pair of matching terra cotta vases.  

A closer look at the fireplace turned up an actual human skull, “Friend of yours, then?” he asked, tapping on the forehead.

“You could say that,” Sherlock quipped from the kitchen.  

The slam of cabinet doors drew John away from the fireplace and into the kitchen, which seemed to be a continuation of the “mad scientist” motif from the lounge.  All manner of lab equipment littered the worktops and the kitchen table held easily 40 boxes, tubes, and bottles that all appeared to contain red hair dye sorted by strength and promised shade.

“So, what’s all this for?” John asked, gesturing between the boxes of heads on the sitting room floor and the tableful of hair colouring, “Planning on becoming a beauty school dropout?”

Sherlock straightened from digging in one of the lower cabinets holding a box of nitrile gloves in one hand and a soup bowl in the other and fixed John with a blank stare, “A what?”

“Beauty school... _Grease_?  No?” John shook his head, “Never mind, I guess.  So what are you actually up to?”

“Cataloguing artificial hair colour.  I’d like to see if it’s possible to achieve a result that can pass for natural.”  

“I can’t think of a more useless endeavour,” John blurted, shocked, “Why on earth would you want to do that?”

“Client, John,” Sherlock replied, snatching a bag of clamps out of one of the boxes of heads.  John watched warily as Sherlock made a circuit of the kitchen, clamping mounts for the mannequin heads along the table and worktop edges.

“What is it that you do, exactly?” John demanded as Sherlock fixed the last clamp in place and whirled back to the boxes and began sorting the heads from fair to dark, “Some kind of product testing?  Consumer reviews?”  

Sherlock turned to stare at John, a head of mousy brown hair clutched in his hands, “Why on earth would I do that?”  He turned back to his sorting, “No, no, I’m a consulting detective.”

“Is that like a private detective?” John hazarded.  Sherlock scowled, clearly offended, so John tried a different tack, “So, if you’re not a private detective, or at least since you’re clearly offended by the idea, then what exactly _do_ you do?”

Sherlock looked up from where he had been attaching one of the heads to a clamp on the edge of the kitchen table, “I assist the police when they’re clever enough to ask, but I will also take on private clients.  If the problem’s interesting enough.”  He shrugged and returned his attention to situating the head on its clamp, “Although interesting really is a relative term.  There’s nothing new anymore.”

“How does that even work?” John asked, leaning back against the sitting room desk, “Do you bumble about like some kind of real-life Christopher Boone and figure out why the neighbour’s dog is dead in the back garden?”  Sherlock scowled down at the crown of the head in front of him, so John pressed further, “Or is this more of a ‘yes, your husband is cheating on you with the babysitter’ racket?”  

“You seem reasonably intelligent,” Sherlock snapped, “What do you think?”

John shrugged, “Well, I don’t know, do I? I’m hardly a private detective.”

“ _Consulting_.” Sherlock muttered.  He looked up, “All right, then, if you’re going to play the idiot, we’ll do this the hard way.”  

He set down the head he’d been about to start attaching and leaned over the kitchen table, focussing the full force of his gaze on John’s face, “When I said you were recently divorced you looked surprised.”

“Of course I was surprised,” John retorted, “I don’t know how you knew when--”

“It’s not about _knowing_ ,” Sherlock dismissed, “It’s about _seeing_.”  He eyed John speculatively, seemed to come to a decision, then he took a deep breath, “The tan line from your wedding ring: it’s fading, but it’s not quite gone yet.  Pair that with the tan line at your wrists and neck, and a post-deployment divorce rate that’s double the national average, and it’s not that difficult.”

“Oh, yeah?” John demanded, rising to the bait.  He crossed his arms and stared defiantly back, “Go on then, tell me why it ended.”

“Difficult to determine with certainty,” Sherlock acknowledged, cocking his head to one side.  “I’d say she left you. It’s a common enough response to a spouse who’s suddenly saddled with a  physical injury accompanied by symptoms of PTSD.  Spouses have trouble with the day to day drudgery of caring for a chronically afflicted partner, so they take the easy route.  Well, easy for them at least.”  Sherlock shrugged then continued, “Assuming you married someone in your age range, she most likely felt the proverbial tick of her biological clock.  She wanted a baby, you probably said you wanted to readjust to civilian life, but you didn’t ever say you don’t think that you’d make a good father, and, ultimately, she decided she didn’t want to wait.  So, that leaves us with a former soldier with post-traumatic stress and a wife with a serious case of baby fever.  Not exactly a difficult deduction.  Or even that original, as it happens.”

“You said she left me,” John growled, still trying to hold on to a bit of his privacy.

“Of course she left you,” Sherlock snapped, clearly annoyed that John hadn’t kept up.  “Why would she order things and ship them to your address?  Your address is the one that stayed constant.  Conclusion: she left you.”

“You’re a right dick, you know,” John spat, but a reluctant smirk lightened his tone.  “I don’t think I’ve told anyone that.”

Sherlock flapped a hand, “Of course you wouldn’t have told anyone.  Too much pride in being a bastion of military dependability.  Probably the same reason you never bothered setting up an appointment with the therapist the army put you in contact with as part of your discharge process.  That on top of your physical injury would have put a bit too much of a dent in the image.”

“My injury?” John asked.  “I mean, I was injured, but how did you know?”

“Bit of a shot in the dark, to be honest,” Sherlock’s attempt at self-deprecation fell woefully short, “But you favoured your left hand and arm when you were lifting and carrying that box earlier.  Based on that, I’d say bullet to the shoulder, but that would be a rare injury for a run-of-the-mill army medic, so you’ve seen action as well.  Part of your problem with coming home.  You miss the adrenalin from the battlefield.”

After Sherlock fell silent, John could only blink into the silence that followed.  To have himself laid out so neatly, clinically, was uncomfortably mortifying.  “I...uh...wow.  Do you do that to everyone who comes in here looking for your help?”

“Usually,” Sherlock replied blithely.  “Knowing a client’s shortcomings is helpful to understanding the role they’ve played in landing themselves here.”

“Bit rude, though,” John pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged and returned his attention to screwing heads to the edge of the table, “Sentiment.  Not really my area.”

“Clearly,” John laughed.  “Still, it is rather impressive.  Getting all that from some tan lines and the way I hold a box.”

“It’s all there,” Sherlock dismissed, “All you have to do is observe.”

John nodded, almost to himself, “Observe.  Sure.  Right.  Put it that way and it sounds easy.”  He pushed off the edge of the desk and came to lean against the kitchen doorframe, “So, what is all this for?  I know you said experiment, but seriously, what are you doing?”

“I told you,” Sherlock said, annoyance edging his words.  “I want to see if I can achieve a shade of red that can pass for natural.”

John rolled his eyes, “I know; you said.  But _why_?”

Sherlock straightened from attaching the last head to the kitchen worktop, “Because, I may need to infiltrate a computer science company with fairly stringent hiring requirements.”

“Microsoft for gingers?” John asked, laughing at the ridiculousness of the very idea.

“Something like that,” Sherlock nodded.  “I’m not sure where it’s headed yet, though.”

A snort of laughter escaped John’s mouth, and Sherlock looked up sharply, then smiled at his own pun.  “So, now that you know everything about me, can I ask about you?” John asked in an attempt to mitigate his earlier harshness.

“You can _ask_ ,” Sherlock answered, his tone implying that answers would only be forthcoming if he deigned to reply.

“So I get that you’re a consulting detective,” John said, waving his hand to acknowledge the ground they’d already covered, “But really, Sherlock, what do you _do_?”

“It really is as simple as it sounds,” Sherlock answered.  He had started back through his forest of heads, brushing out the hair and sectioning it off, presumably to apply different dyes to each hank of hair.  “I assist the police if they’re intelligent enough to ask, and if a private client has an issue that the police would either ignore or bungle, they come directly to me.  I’ll take them on if they’re interesting enough.”

“Like this one?” John asked, “With your huddle of heads?”

“Like this one,” Sherlock agreed.

“So why would _you_ need to dye your hair?” John asked, thinking of the look he’d gotten at the brilliant auburn highlights that lurked in the shadows of Sherlock’s dark hair when they’d stood out in the sun waiting to cross the road.

“This company, RHL Graphic Design, only appears to hire redheads with strong, bright colour.”  Sherlock ruffled up his own hair for emphasis, “My client was offered a position with them, and the day he interviewed he described a woman with similar hair colour to mine being turned away.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” John argued, “He could have had more experience.  It could have been a case of sexism rather than, um, ginger-ism.”

“My client doesn’t think so,” Sherlock said, shaking his head.  “When he came to me to discuss the initial offer, he had already noticed that virtually everyone who already works for RHL is a redhead at the vivid end of the spectrum too.”

“So this RHL Graphic Design,” John pushed, “What is it that they do, exactly that they need him?”

“It’s a computer graphics rendering firm,” Sherlock answered.  “My client, James Wilson, owns his own graphic design and rendering agency, and his employee put him in touch with RHL as someone who could debug their new system and get it up and running faster than going through a larger company.  So RHL contacted him; it seems to be a simple case of networking run amok.”

“Jesus, this is already over my head,” John said, shaking his head, “How can you possibly become enough of a graphics design expert to get hired by these people?”

Sherlock put on a disturbingly bright smile, “Companies like these need more than just software programmers to keep them running.”

“So, what?” John asked, “You’re just going to dye your hair and show up to ask for a job?”

Sherlock shook his head, “More than likely, it won’t come to that.  Wilson came to me seeking advice that a relatively simple internet search could have given him.”

“Whether or not this operation’s legitimate?” John guessed.  Sherlock nodded.  “And?” John pressed, “Is it?”

“As of now, I’m forced to agree with the internet,” Sherlock replied.  “Everything I can find seems to suggest that it’s an actual CGI studio trying to get off the ground and in need of an expert to debug their servers.”

“But?” John prompted.  He had only met Sherlock that afternoon, but he could already sense there was something he wasn’t sharing.

Sherlock shrugged, nonchalant, “But nothing.  There is no evidence to suggest any sort of suspicious behaviour.”

“There may not be anything concrete, but I’d wager you wouldn’t be sinking all this time and money into investigating hair dye if you weren’t at least a little suspicious about something,” John needled.  “I mean, Jesus, this has to be what? A few hundred quid?”

“I try not to pass up an opportunity for scientific inquiry,” Sherlock responded primly, twisting his lips up into a faint smile.  “You never know when it might come in handy.”

The soft tap of low heels on the stairs forestalled John’s reply, and Mrs. Hudson poked her head into the kitchen and stopped when she saw the boxes on the floor, “Oh, you found them, did you?”

“Clearly,” Sherlock said, glancing up from his task.

“What on earth are you doing to my kitchen, young man?” She demanded, pointing at the heads all staring at each other around the kitchen table.

When Sherlock stoically ignored her in favour of continuing to section off chunks of hair on his mannequin heads, John piped up, “He’s testing hair dye.  Trying to find himself a natural red.”

“I don’t know why,” She answered, “He’s such a handsome thing as it is.  You young ones mess about too much with your looks.  In my day--”

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock snapped, slamming his comb down onto the table, “What, exactly, did you need?”

“I was going to make tea, and I’ve got some of those custard tarts I know you like,” she prattled as she flitted around the kitchen, idly tidying dishes and food, “Did you want me to bring some up for you and your young man?”

John blinked, shocked.  He and Sherlock had only met that afternoon.  He couldn’t imagine how she’d gotten it into her head that he was romantically interested in her mad tenant.  John waited for Sherlock to correct her, but when he didn’t, John interjected, “No, no, Mrs. Hudson.  I’m not Sherlock’s ‘young man.’”  When she only stared at him in disbelief, he added, “I’m not gay.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and hummed under his breath.

“I beg your pardon?” John snapped, rounding on Sherlock who was still calmly brushing and separating hair like he was in some high-end salon.

Sherlock shook his head, “I didn’t say anything."

"Oh, don't you worry," Mrs. Hudson interjected, "We get all sorts round here."

"I know," John retorted, "I _live_ round here.  It’s just--”  

The doorbell cut John off mid-defense, and Sherlock immediately abandoned the conversation in favour of rushing to the window and peering down into the street.  John, completely at a loss, turned to Mrs. Hudson for some sort of clue, but she just shook her head.  Sherlock continued to stare, and after a few more seconds, the buzzer went again.

“Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson prompted, gesturing weakly towards the open sitting room door.

“Oh, it’s unlocked,” Sherlock dismissed.

“Anyone could just wander in,” John protested, as the sound of footsteps began ascending the stairs.

The man who appeared in the doorway was completely unremarkable in virtually every respect except for his head of thick, flamingly red hair.  He nodded first to Mrs. Hudson and then to Sherlock, but stopped and pointed accusingly at John, “Who’s he?  He wasn’t here last time.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sherlock said with a wave of his hand.  “Why are you back, has something changed?”

“Yes,” the man replied, stepping aside so that Mrs. Hudson could slip back down to her own flat, “Is this a bad time?  I can come back.”

“No, no,” Sherlock motioned his new visitor towards the same rickety wooden chair John had taken earlier in the afternoon, “Come sit down and tell me what’s changed.”  The man nodded and moved to sit.  Sherlock turned to John, “Since you’ve heard this much, you can stay and hear the rest if you like.”  The last of Sherlock’s reply dipped so soft that John barely heard it, “It’s the least I could do since you brought me my boxes.”

John shrugged an acceptance and made himself comfortable on Sherlock’s sofa.  He still wasn’t entirely sure what it was that Sherlock did as a consulting detective apart from bizarre experimentation and insulting diatribes, but he couldn’t deny that the arrival of an actual client had piqued his interest.  

“Before you begin,” Sherlock addressed his client, “James Wilson, this is John Watson.  He’s a computer programmer from over the road and has a keen interest in graphic design, so he may be able to offer us another opinion.”  John opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock rushed on before he could get a word in.  “Now, tell me what’s changed.”

James Wilson twisted his hands together in his lap and blinked rapidly before he opened his mouth, “I...well...I’ve been sacked.”

Sherlock eyed James up and down with the same level of scrutiny he’d given John earlier that afternoon, “Not for incompetence, I should think.”

“I’m good at what I do,” Wilson huffed, clearly affronted.  “I don’t know why I’m being let go, but I’ve only got two more weeks then they’re cutting me loose.  Vince, the bloke I told you about, the one who hired me, he came by today to give me my walking papers.”

“Did he say why?” John asked from his spot on the sofa, “I mean, they can’t just sack you without a cause.”

Wilson shrugged helplessly, “Said ‘they were headed a different direction’ and that I could finish the bit of the debug I was working on, but that once I reached a natural break not to start anything else."

John clenched his fists against his knees, “That’s a load of bollocks,” he snapped.  “It’s got to be some sort of wrongful termination.”

“Yeah, but what can I _do_?” Wilson asked, “It’s not like I can afford a lawyer.  I’m not even sure how I’m going to pay you, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock waved James Wilson’s worries away with a waft of his hand; clearly worrying about money was beneath him.  John rolled his eyes; if only he could be so lucky.

“So, you’ve got two weeks, give or take, left on this job?” Sherlock clarified.  Wilson nodded.  Sherlock nodded once and steepled his hands in front of his mouth, thinking.  As he sat, John could practically see the wheels turning behind his eyes, and he wondered what pieces he could conceivably joining.

“Mr. Wilson,” Sherlock blurted and stood to begin ushering James Wilson to the door, “Unfortunately, I’m right in the middle of a few things, but I will give this my full attention in due course.”

“I...uh...okay,” Wilson stuttered, standing to go.  “Should I...do you need anything else from me?”

“Just the address for RHL’s offices,” Sherlock said with a smile.

“It’s in Fleet Street.  Pope’s Court, I think,” Wilson replied.  “I’ll have to look at one of my pay cheques and text you the exact address.”

“Fine, fine,” Sherlock said, now actively shunting Wilson towards the stairs, “Just send it along and I’ll look into it.”

Wilson turned back one final time at the sitting room door, “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.  I’m not sure what I’d do without you.”  He shook Sherlock’s hand then disappeared down the stairs, and a few moments later, the slam of the street door signalled his complete departure.

“So, consulting detective,” John said into the silence that followed, “Why’d he lose the job?”

“Not sure,” Sherlock said, squinting down at the empty pavement on Baker Street, “Not enough data.”  He whipped around and fixed his gaze on John, “But you’re welcome to come with me to try to find out.”

The idea of dropping everything and losing himself in riddles and experimenting sounded inviting, but John forced himself to give the right answer.  The responsible answer.

“I, um, I actually think I’m going to pass,” John said, shaking his head.  “At least for tonight.”  He gestured towards the door, “I’ve got things to do.  You know how it is.”

“Mmm, yes,” Sherlock hummed, “Your dog probably needs a walk.”

John just stared, “How did you--”

“Hair on your trouser leg,” Sherlock interrupted, pointing to the hem of John’s navy trousers where a few rust and white hairs clung on for dear life.

“Bet you can’t say what breed it is,” John teased as he stood and patted his pockets to ensure he still had his wallet, phone, and keys.

“Not at this distance, no,” Sherlock acknowledged, “But I could with a bit of a closer look.”

John shook his head, “Not today.”  He turned back at the sitting room door and flashed Sherlock a grin, “Wouldn’t say no to tomorrow, though.”


	3. Freud Never Mentioned This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back :)  
> Getting the case and the relationship off the ground here. So when this idea came to me, I envisioned a Sherlock and John who'd not met one another until they've been through more, and through more without each other, so their "bad" habits are a little more ingrained and as a result they're both a little more abrasive to one another. 
> 
> An internet high-five if you can spot the Tale of Two Cities reference :)

John let himself out of Sherlock’s flat and made his way back down the stairs.  At the bottom, just as he put his hand on the doorknob, Mrs. Hudson popped out of her flat and stopped him.

“Are you leaving already?” She asked, drying her hands on a dish towel as she spoke.  She sounded disappointed he was off already.

“Yeah,” John answered with a small shrug, “I’ve barely been home this evening and I’ve got some work I need to catch up on before tomorrow morning and everything.”

She drew back into her doorway, “Oh.  That’s fine, I suppose.  I’m sure you’re a busy young man.”

“Well, yeah,” John responded, “Plus, I’m taking care of my ex-wife’s dog while she’s at a conference this weekend.” He frowned, unsure why he felt the need to defend his departure.  

Mrs. Hudson just raised her eyebrows and nodded a goodbye before closing her door with a soft click.  John shook his head at her closed door then turned and strode resolutely out onto the street and back in the direction of his own flat.

Back in his entryway, John finally let himself relax.  He hadn’t expected that two misdirected boxes would turn into such an ordeal, but now that they had, he’d let almost half his evening slip away.  He quickly trotted up the stairs and into his own flat where the bulldog he had agreed to pet sit for the week was waiting for him.  Browning trundled up to him on his little stumpy legs, and John smiled down at him as he bent to clip on his leash.

“Sorry I was out so long.  All that mail was for the neighbour, not your mum,” John apologized as they headed down the stairs and out onto Baker Street together.  

John frowned down at the little brown and white bully trotting beside him; he’d brought Browning home as a birthday present for Mary for her first birthday after he’d been discharged.  He had hoped that a puppy would buy him some time to wrap his head around the idea of an actual baby, but he’d been wrong.  Mary had continued to needle him, saying his worries about not being ready and needing to adjust to being home again were just excuses and that if he really loved her, he’d give her what she wanted.  He’d dodged the arguments by taking Browning on longer and longer walks as his marriage had imploded, and the day Mary had served him with the divorce decree, she’d also taken the dog, saying if John didn’t want a baby, then he surely didn’t want a puppy.  John had agreed out of the depth of his anger and frustration, but he’d missed taking Browning on his walks.  Fortunately, Mary’s business trip to Cardiff for a weeklong conference meant she’d stopped by a week ago, dog in hand with a “request” that John take care of him while she was away.  He’d taken the lead with a curt nod, and now, at least for a while, he had back the therapist who never looked at him askance or like he was making it all up.  

“I’m not even sure where to start,” he told Browning as they made their way into the park.  “It’s those heads that showed up today.  You saw them.”  

Once they got inside the park, John steered them down the path, dodging evening joggers and the handful of mothers strolling with prams and toddlers in the gathering dusk.  They fell into a steady pace, and John let his feet carry him forward while his brain replayed his encounter with Sherlock from earlier in the afternoon.  John shook his head at the whole scenario.  How, he wondered, could anyone so abrasive get along in the real world.  He supposed it helped that Sherlock was self-employed, if he could even call this consulting detective business employment.  Based off his experience with Sherlock’s brutal honesty, John couldn’t see how he could possibly get much income off of his consulting lark.  Unless the police were paying handsomely for his services. 

“Really not my business,” John reminded himself aloud.  He’d done his job by getting Sherlock his misdelivered packages, so now they’d probably go back to the way their lives had been.  Across-the-road neighbours who never spoke.  

They had made their usual circuit and were headed back down the road toward home when John’s mobile buzzed in his pocket.  He juggled the leash into his other hand and fished his phone out of his pocket to see who was calling.  He rolled his eyes at the screen: Mary.  He dropped his phone back into his pocket; returning her call could wait until he got home and got Browning fed.  

In the end, he put her off until after he’d fed both Browning and himself and done a quick Google search to see who, exactly, he was living across from.  John sighed as he dialled; these calls were always exhausting and usually ended with Mary manipulating him into agreeing to yet another favour while enduring some sort of snide comments about his shortcomings as a man.  

“John,” Mary picked up after two rings, “Nice of you to call me back.”

John closed his eyes and silently asked for patience, “Yeah, I was out with Browning when you called.  What’s wrong?”

“Nothing much,” Mary hedged, “Nothing inconvenient, anyway.”

“What do you need?” John forced the question out through gritted teeth.

“I need to get some drapes for my new flat, and I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind if I shipped it to your place.”  She never phrased these ‘favours’ as requests.  They were always demands.

“I don’t think so,” John said.  “I’m going on evenings for the next two weeks at the hospital, so I won’t be here when the mail comes.  I wouldn’t be able to sign for it.”  He collapsed onto the sofa, exhausted by the conversation already.  Browning jumped up and wiggled his bum into the crease where John’s arse connected with the couch.

“Oh I don’t think it’ll need signing,” Mary dismissed breezily, “I just need a safe place for it to land is all.”

“Don’t you have a flat?” John snapped, “I assume you do; at least it seems like it with everything you’ve had delivered to my place.”

“Yes, but John, I’ve got work during the day.  Plus, it’s always so nice to see you,” she wheedled, “I mean, we can still be friends, can’t we?  Can’t I just want to see you sometimes?”

“I don’t think so,” John answered, shaking his head.  “I won’t be here, so your stuff won’t be safe, and I don’t want to deal with the bullshit that would inevitably follow if something happened to whatever it is.”  He took a deep breath: time for the hard part.  “Anyway, you using me as your private drop point isn’t friendship; it’s taking advantage.”

“Oooh, this is a new one,” Mary squawked.  “Did you finally find a boyfriend who’d loan you a pair of balls?  Because I know you can’t stand up to me with the ones you’ve got.  Or, well, haven’t, I guess.”

“Is this how it’s going to be?” John demanded hotly.  “Are we really going to get into the gay jokes?”

“No, no, love, of course not,” Mary replied, her voice shifting into a saccharine reassurance.  “What do you always say?  Not gay.”  Her next words held a disgusted edge, “Not gay.  But not straight either.”

“So it’s going to be like this, is it?” John nodded decisively at his mobile, “Fine.  We’re done.  I absolutely do not need this from you.”

“You never needed anything from me, did you?” Mary spat back.  “Fine, then.  I’ll pick up Browning tomorrow, but after this, don’t expect me to call you again.”

“Well, since I wasn’t holding my breath for you to call in the first place, I’m fairly certain I can bear the loss.”  John stabbed the end call button and threw his phone down on the cushion next to him.  Browning looked up and thumped his tail against the backrest.  John looked down at him and sighed, “At least I’ll be well shot of more of her stuff showing up on our doorstep, hmm?”  Browning grinned, his tongue lolling out to one side.  John reached out and ruffled his ears, “Come on, you, let’s go to bed.”

John trudged down the hall and into his bedroom, the dog at his heels, where he quickly stripped out of his work clothes and pulled on a ratty old v-neck and jogging pants.  Too tired to read, John simply clicked off the lamp and curled up in bed and smiled at the sounds of Browning snuffling into his bed next to the dresser.  John groaned into the silence that followed; now that he’d turned the light off, sleep eluded him.  

His fight with Mary was nothing new.  They’d met in uni; he’d been in the medical program, and she’d been in the nursing program.  A similar career path and a few common friends meant that falling into a relationship had been easy.  She’d lured him in with a friendly, open demeanour and a spirited sense of adventure, but the inevitable conversation about exes had changed all that.  John hadn’t shied away from his personal history; his first kiss had been with a girl and his first shag had been with a boy.  He’d loved them both, and he’d been honest with Mary about everything.  Mary had, in her own way, been honest too.  She’d said none of that mattered; that they were together now.  But he’d seen her change.  She clung tighter when they would go out to the pub and a fit bloke would smile in John’s general direction.  She would make snide comments whenever John would beg off sex because he’d needed to study or work or even if he was just tired.  He had only ever stayed because, after a while, it was just easier than trying to be single again.  In the end, though, it hadn’t mattered.  He was still here.  Single.  

Browning huffed out a sigh and settled further into sleep, and John, worn out from the all the emotional ups and downs, let out a sigh of his own then rolled tighter into the duvet and finally let himself rest.

 

~~*~~

 

John snapped awake to the ping of his text alert.  He rolled over and thumbed on his phone, squinting against the sudden bright light in the dim room.  

_ I could use some assistance if you’re not busy.  SH _

John stared, dumbfounded, at the message in his inbox for several seconds.  He blinked a few times and finally gathered his wits enough to tap out a reply:

_ Who is this and how did you get my number? _

He dropped his phone back on the bedside table and rolled over, trying to get back to sleep.  He was halfway between awake and asleep when his phone pinged again.  “Oh, what now?” John asked, picking his phone back up.

_ Sherlock Holmes.  You did come to my home yesterday. _

John glared at the screen and stabbed the keys in response:

_ Are you bloody kidding me?  I brought you boxes.  How does that give you permission to pinch my number?  And, it’s half six in the morning...why are you up working this early on a Saturday? _

Browning woke with a soft woof at the sounds of John rolling around and came over to investigate, wagging his stubby tail.  John dropped his phone on the duvet and reached down to scratch his ears, “What does that madman want this early, hmm?”  A muffled ding from the folds of the duvet alerted him to the fact that Sherlock wanted to continue their discussion.  John dug his phone out of the blankets and flipped it on.

_ Is it?  I’ve not been to bed yet then.  And it’s hardly ‘pinching,’ as you put it, if you leave your phone out where anyone can find it.  SH _

John rolled his eyes at that answer and patted the duvet absently while he thought about how to respond.  Browning jumped up and came to sit against John’s ribs.  John finished his reply and pushed send:

_ My phone is password protected, you dick. _

“Who does he think he is?”  Browning thumped his tail against the mattress and let out another soft woof in reply.  John sat up, “Yeah, you’re probably hungry and need a wee, hmm?”  He pocketed his phone, got up, and grabbed a hoodie and Browning’s leash and they headed out.

Down on the street, John turned right out his door, and as as they made their way down the road, Mrs. Hudson stepped out from Speedy’s cafe.  She stopped and waved to them, “Good morning, John,” she called.  

John grimaced at his decision to take Browning out in his pyjamas, but he also figured he couldn’t just ignore Sherlock’s sweet landlady.  With a glance both ways to make sure the road was clear,  John turned in her direction and they crossed quickly over, “Good morning,” he replied.  “I’m sorry for all the commotion yesterday.”

“No, no,” Mrs. Hudson dismissed, “Sherlock’s been pounding up and down the stairs looking for those heads all week, so--”

She fell silent when Sherlock burst out the front door of 221 dressed in fine wool trousers,  a soft dove grey shirt, and swaddled in a burgundy dressing gown all with completely bare feet.  “John,” he blurted, “I was wondering when you’d get here.  Come right up.”

“I...what?” John spluttered.  “I’ve got the dog.”  He pointed down at Browning to emphasize his words.  “We were just off on a walk.”

Sherlock’s gaze followed John’s finger until he  looked down at Browning who grinned up at him and wagged his rump along with his stumpy tail.  “English bulldog,” Sherlock muttered to himself, “Not surprising, if I’m honest.”

John stared at Sherlock for a beat then turned to Mrs. Hudson to try to make some sense out of what was rapidly becoming a public spectacle out on the pavement, “Does he…?”

“Oh, it’s fine, dear,” Mrs. Hudson dismissed.  “He’s got so many things rattling around in that funny old head; sometimes the wires get a bit crossed.”  

“The dog can come too,” Sherlock offered, “As long as he doesn’t touch anything.”

“Come where?” John demanded, rapidly running out of patience.

“Pope’s Court,” Sherlock responded as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.  “I want to see what there is to see at Mr. Wilson’s soon-to-be-former job.”

“RHL Graphics?” John clarified.  “If they’re sacking him, they’ll hardly be in the market for a jack of all trades.”

“No, no,” Sherlock shook his head, “We’d just be going to look.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” John muttered.

Sherlock clapped his hand on John’s shoulder.  “So,” he said in a tone that indicated the whole matter was settled, “You’re going to do whatever it is you need to do with your wife’s attempt at warming you up to the idea of parenting; I’m going to finish getting dressed, and then we are going to go down to Fleet Street and see just what kind of firm employs only red-headed graphic designers.”

John pointed down at the dog, “But, he’s not--” John cut himself short and stared at Sherlock for a few beats then tried again, “Are you serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sherlock shrugged.

John hesitated for a moment then acquiesced with a nod, “I...okay, but I need about an hour.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Fine, but I’m coming to collect you in an hour.”

John nodded and after a quick wave to Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, he turned back up the road to finish his walk.

 

~~*~~

 

An hour later, John had walked and fed the dog, eaten, showered, and dressed and was sitting in his living room flipping through the news on his computer when the bell went.  John trundled downstairs and opened the door to Sherlock standing on the stoop in a full suit, grinning like a maniac.

“Ready?” Sherlock asked, stepping back down onto the pavement.

John came out and locked up, “I think so,” he said.  Sherlock nodded and stepped up to the kerb and threw up his hand for a cab.

Settled in the backseat, John kept glancing at Sherlock who was sat on the far side of the bench seat, tapping industriously away at his phone.

“So,” John broke in, “Where are we going?”

“You know where,” Sherlock muttered, not even glancing up from his phone.

“Well yes, I know where we’re going geographically,” John conceded, “But what are we supposed to find when we get there?”

Sherlock looked up and out his window and shrugged, “Not sure,” he admitted.  

Anxious to make some sort of pleasant conversation, John tried a different tack, “You read about these fee hikes?  Tellson’s raised their ATM fees and didn’t tell any of their customers.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed, “Robbery’s not my usual area.”

“I forgot,” John needled, “You’re more in the lost kitten game, aren’t you.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and smirked, “Quite.”

They rode a few minutes in silence before John spoke again, “He’s not.”

“Mmm?  Who’s not what?” Sherlock asked.

“Browning.” John replied.  “He’s not my ex’s attempt to warm me up to parenting.”  He hesitated before he continued, “He’s my...he was my attempt to put her off.  Get myself a bit of time she didn’t really want to give.”

“Of course,” Sherlock muttered, “There’s always something.”

Before John could think of a reply, their cab drew up outside the address Sherlock had given to their driver when they’d set off.  Sherlock paid and they stepped out on a street full of townhomes that had been converted over the years into a row of posh looking boutiques and offices.  Sherlock paced over to the office James Wilson had identified as his, but instead of a small business shut for the weekend, a realtor’s key box hung from the door handle and a For Rent sign stood in the front window.  

“Strange,” said John, “I thought Wilson said he had two weeks left on this job.”

“A rental advertisement doesn’t mean the current tenants have vacated yet,” Sherlock pointed out.  “Shall we?”  Without waiting for a reply, Sherlock stepped up to the front door and knocked sharply.  Footsteps scraped towards the door, and Sherlock flicked a glance at John.

A heavyset man with a bullish neck and a face that spoke of a career in fighting and hair in the same shade as James Wilson’s answered the door, “Yeah?” he demanded.

Sherlock plastered on a winning smile that John noticed didn’t quite reach his eyes and held out his hand to the moose at the door, “Yes, hello, I’m in need of a graphic designer to render some three dimensional models for me.  A friend gave me your name.  Said you did brilliant work.”

“Does your friend have a name?” the man demanded, looking Sherlock over from head to toe.

“Of course,” Sherlock answered.  “Duncan Ross.”

The muscle at the door shook his head, “Never heard of him.”

Sherlock took out his phone and started tapping away, apparently looking for something, “I’m sure this was the address he gave me,” he muttered.

John peeked over his shoulder, and was shocked to see Sherlock doing nothing but flipping randomly through the apps on his phone, not actually looking for anything.

“Well, I don’t know, mate, but we’ve never had any sort of dealing with any Duncan Ross.”  He shrugged and leaned against the door frame, clearly not willing to let them come in to try to sort out their apparent misunderstanding.

Sherlock looked up from his phone and flashed the man a dazzling smile, “I’m so sorry, I was mistaken.  The address he gave me is two streets over.  So sorry to have troubled you.  Come on, John.”

As they turned to go, the man who’d answered the door nodded and retreated back into the building.  John looked back over his shoulder at the unassuming home of RHL Graphic Design, “What the hell was all that?” he asked.

“Not much,” Sherlock said with a smirk, “Just checking on something.”

“Checking what?” John pressed, hurrying to catch up to Sherlock’s much longer stride.  “Didn’t look like you did much of anything other than get rejected.”

“To the untrained eye, maybe.”  Sherlock ducked around a corner and into the alley that ran down the side of RHL’s building.  He stopped in front of their back door and stooped down to examine the door handle and lock with a small magnifying glass.

John leaned against the brick wall and watched Sherlock work.  “See anything?”

Sherlock looked up at John and asked, “How do you think cleaning crews take the trash away at nights?”

“Out the back, I’d guess,” John answered with a shrug.  “I mean, the skip back here looks like it belongs to this building.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock answered, “So why is this door welded shut?”

“I, um, I don’t know,” John conceded.  “Seems awfully inconvenient for the cleaners.”

Sherlock stood up and snapped his magnifying glass closed, “You’re right.”  He pocketed his magnifier, “This is getting awfully strange, John.  I think it’s time we have another chat with Mr. James Wilson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A heartfelt thank you to everyone who's left kudos and comments so far. I'm so pleased you're enjoying this.


	4. When is a Bank Job not a Bank Job?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry this is a week late. An upper respiratory crud laid me low last weekend, so I spent the weekend alternately sleeping and swilling vitamin C instead of updating. I'm back, though.

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock called James Wilson and arranged for him to come to the flat after he finished work for the day.  While he was on the phone, John wandered into the kitchen to have a look at how Sherlock’s dye project was coming along.  Sherlock had coloured all twenty heads, and now he had a range of hair from vivid, fiery red, to deep, warm auburn.

“They came out alright,” John said, nodding at Sherlock’s arrangement of heads, when he heard Sherlock’s footsteps behind him.

“Mmm, I thought so,” Sherlock agreed quietly pleased.  His smile dropped off his face and he sighed a bit sadly, “I don’t think I’ll need it, though.  Not now that Wilson’s losing this job.”

“I don’t know,” John objected, “You never know when you need to go undercover as a ginger.”

Sherlock shook his head, “Not for a while.  There’s been some bank robberies that seem a bit interesting.  I might start looking into those.”

“Seems a bit dangerous,” John pointed out.  “Is this the sort of thing you’d be doing with actual police, then?”

“Usually.”  Another shrug.  Sherlock continued looking down at the head in front of him and  twisted a lock of the mannequin’s hair around his finger as he spoke again, “I’ve been asked by a private client to look into some stolen money at his bank.  He wants me to try to figure out if it’s linked to similar cases of missing funds at three other banks.”

John’s eyes brightened with recognition, “Does this have anything to do with those surprise fee hikes?”  Sherlock nodded, still watching his fingers as they twirled through the hair.  John scowled, “I can’t imagine how any bank can justify taking their rates up to £3 just to use an ATM.”  

“City Boys have to make their money somewhere,” Sherlock sniped, letting the lock of hair slip from his grasp.

“Yes, but three bloody quid,” John groaned, “It’s unconscionable.”  

“Quite,” Sherlock replied.  “I suppose I should look into it.  Embezzlement seems likely.”

“You don’t sound too enthusiastic,” John smirked.

“I went to uni with Hugo,” Sherlock murmured as if that were any sort of answer.

“Friends?” John asked.

Sherlock’s eyes darted away from John’s to the floor, “As much as one can be, I suppose.”  He hesitated, considering his words, “He and I moved in rather different social circles.  I’m sure he’s asking in an effort to preserve his job and his standing rather than out of some sort of desire to revive a nostalgic camaraderie.”

“I’m sure,” John agreed.  “You should be careful, though.  These white-collar crimes aren’t something to mess about with,” John’s tone turned scolding.  “Whoever’s behind this probably has absolute sharks for lawyers, and they’ll make mincemeat out of a case built around some private eye going in and doing the police’s work for them.  It’d get chucked out of court in a heartbeat.”

“Not necessarily,” Sherlock said with a small smile.  “Depending on the particulars, this wouldn’t be something a bank would want dragged through the press, and a court case would mean exactly that.  It’s--”

The sound of the bell cut Sherlock off, but instead of going to answer the door, Sherlock stepped around John to peer out the window.  “Oh, what does he want?” Sherlock muttered to himself.  The doorbell sounded again, but Sherlock continued to stare down at the street below his window with a scowl on his face.

“Are you going to get that?” John asked, pointing out the sitting room door.

“Mmmm...nope,” Sherlock dismissed casually.

The street door slammed, so clearly whoever was ringing had decided to just try the door.  “Do you just leave your door unlocked?” John demanded.

“Why on earth would I do that?” Sherlock asked, “Anyone might wander up.”

“Like they’re doing now?” John muttered under his breath as footsteps hustled up the stairs.

The man who burst through the sitting room door was just the right side of middle aged and he looked as if he went everywhere at a bit of a rush.

“Sherlock,” he snapped, “Why aren’t you answering your door?”

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally, “Didn’t particularly want to.”

“God, Sherlock,” his guest groaned, “This isn’t still about me not letting you in on those bank jobs, is it?”

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the top of his desk, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Detective Inspector.”

“Don’t give me that,” the Detective Inspector snapped, “You know exactly what I’m talking about.  I can’t give you access to something that I don’t have access to myself.”  

“I said it was fine,” Sherlock dismissed, flipping open the front page of the newspaper and skimming the text.  

“Anyway, who’s this?” He asked, pointing at John, “Client of yours?”

Sherlock glanced up from his reading to look at John then back down at his paper, “Oh, no.  He’s a divorced, former army doctor who lives across the road and a few doors down.  The inept postman delivered something of mine to him.”  

When Sherlock didn’t say anything more, John realized it was going to be entirely up to him to display any sort of manners, “I’m John Watson.”

The Detective Inspector smiled and extended his hand, “Greg Lestrade.”  He pointed at Sherlock, “He treating you alright?  He tends not to pull any punches, especially not with people he’s just met.”

John shook his head, “I, um, yeah, I guess.  I thought he’d bugged my flat he knew so much about me when I showed up on his doorstep last night.”  

Lestrade smiled, “Yeah, that sounds like Sherlock.  He told me exactly who my wife was shagging behind my back the first time he turned up to one of my crime scenes.”

“Jesus,” John gaped, “That’s a bit rough.”

Lestrade laughed, “It wasn’t the best day I’ve had, that’s for sure.”  He shook his head over at where Sherlock was still pretending to ignore them, “Wasn’t exactly his best day either.”  Sherlock’s spine stiffened at Greg’s words, but Greg just laughed softly and nodded in Sherlock’s direction, “He’s quite good at what he does, though.  There’s been a few cases I’d have been literally lost without him.”

Sherlock looked up from his paper again, “Why are you still here, Detective Inspector?”

Lestrade stepped over and settled himself on the sofa, “I’m actually here to talk to you about those bank jobs.”

“Whatever for?” Sherlock asked with feigned innocence.  “You made it quite clear the last time I asked that you had no need of my services in this matter.”

“That was before people started ending up dead,” he answered shortly.

Sherlock glanced up sharply from out of the corner of his eye, “Dead?  Who?  When?  How?”

“Whoah, whoah,” Lestrade said, cutting off the tide of Sherlock’s questioning.  “I’m not even sure this death’s tied to the robberies at all.  It’s just, the body was dropped at one of the banks we’ve been looking at for unauthorized fee hikes and the cause of death’s a bit peculiar, so I wanted to see if you’d come down and give us your professional opinion.  I’ve got Baynes holding the scene so you can come take a look.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded mildly, but John could see the fresh light of adventure gleaming behind his pale eyes.  “Who’s working on the forensics?”

Lestrade grimaced as he answered, “Anderson.”

Sherlock slammed his hands down on the desk, “Why?  You are aware he’s completely incompetent, aren’t you?”

“Hey,” John interrupted sharply, “He’s here offering you a bit of work; try to show a little respect.”

Sherlock pointed at John, “You stay out of this,” he snapped.

“Don’t you get shirty with me,” John shot back, “I don’t need this shit.  I can just as easily go home and forget this ever happened, you know.”

“Please don’t let me stop you,” Sherlock answered smoothly.

“Ladies, ladies,” Lestrade cut in wearily, “Can we get back to what _actually_ matters?”

“I’m not sure anything about your visit does at this point,” Sherlock said, disappearing into the kitchen.  

“Sherlock,” Lestrade shouted, his patience unravelling, “Do you want in on this or not?”

Sherlock stuck his head back around the doorframe, “I don’t know what ‘this’ is supposed to be.  You haven’t said anything that would lead me to believe that you’ve come about anything besides a run-of-the-mill murder, which you should be quite capable of handling on your own.”

Lestrade looked to John for help, but John shook his head, “To be honest, you haven’t, really.”

“I don’t know why I bothered coming,” Lestrade groused.  He closed his eyes in a bid to gather his patience, “Fine.  If you’ll come in here and listen for a damn second, I’ll tell you what I can.”

Sherlock came back out of the kitchen and arranged himself in the leather chair by the fireplace and flung his head back against the backrest in a manner that John assumed was supposed to convey barely interested ennui.  John took a seat in the wooden chair that he’d sat in yesterday and rolled his eyes; he’d known Sherlock less than a day and the only thing he knew about him was that he was willing to spend a rather obscene amount of money in the name of a rather dubious experimentation process and that he had the patience of a five-year-old.  Lestrade caught John’s eye and smirked, obviously familiar with Sherlock’s short-tempered histrionics.

“Well?” Sherlock asked from behind his closed eyes.

Lestrade huffed, “The victim’s been dropped inside the lobby of the main branch of Shad Sanderson.  The method and display looks somewhat ritualistic, so I wanted to see if you’d come have a look.  I’m thinking it’s not a coincidence that the body’s been dropped at one of the banks Action Fraud’s investigating for unauthorized ATM surcharge hikes.”

Sherlock peeled his eyes open and sat up a bit straighter, “Do you see, Detective Inspector, how much easier this is when you simply tell me what details have made you think this would be the kind of case to pique my interest?”

Greg slapped his hands against his thighs and stood, “So, will you come?”

“Not in your car I won’t,” Sherlock answered shortly, “But I’ll pick up a cab and follow you right behind.”

Greg stood to leave, “Was that so hard, Sherlock?”  Instead of responding, Sherlock scowled from where he was still sitting in his chair.  “Fine, whatever, but if you’re not there right behind me, I’m going to release the scene to forensics and you’ll be shit out of luck.”  With that, he turned and descended the stairs, the slam of the door signalling his total departure.

As soon as the door closed, Sherlock leaped into action.  He went over to the door and pulled on his shoes then rushed back towards what John assumed was his bedroom to shed his dressing gown.  “Want to see a murder, John?” Sherlock shouted from down the hall.

“I think I just almost saw one,” John muttered.  He raised his voice so Sherlock could hear him, “Why me?  Don’t the police have professionals for this kind of thing?”

Sherlock reappeared buttoning his suit jacket.  He cast a quick glance at himself in the mirror, frowned at what he saw then shrugged and made for the door, “So...coming?” he asked.

“Surely they won’t let me in,” John hedged.

“Why wouldn’t they?” Sherlock asked, completely surprised.  “You’re a medical man.  You know your arsehole from a hole in the ground.  At least, you seem to.  Plus, there could be a bit of trouble.”

“Trouble?” John asked, “At a closed crime scene?”

“One never knows,” Sherlock responded archly.

“I think with you, one probably does know,” John answered with a small huff of laughter.  “I wish I could, but Mary’s supposed to come pick Browning up this evening.  I can’t just run off and leave him.”

Sherlock flapped a hand at this and headed for the door, “Leave him with your downstairs neighbour and call your ex-wife in the cab.  You heard Lestrade.  If we’re too far behind him, he won’t hold the scene for me.”

John followed Sherlock down the stairs and out onto Baker Street, where he turned to hail them a cab.  But when the cab drew up to the kerb, John hesitated, “What if I can’t get hold of him to take care of Browning till Mary gets there, though?”

“Oh for God’s sake,” Sherlock snapped from inside the cab, “Get in, text your idiot neighbour, and if he doesn’t answer, use my phone to text Mrs. Hudson and get her to do it.”

John got in, and they pulled away, but he still looked unsure.  “I can’t do that to her,” he protested, “She’s your landlady, not my maid.”

Sherlock whipped his head around from where he’d been giving directions to the cabbie and snapped, “John.”  He leaned into John’s space and his words came out in a frustrated torrent, “I’m fairly certain this is not the first time you’ve been out for what would be, essentially, a double shift.  I’d also state with reasonable certainty this is not the first time your absence has not been expected.  As a surgeon who works in trauma, your job has a certain level of spontaneity.  It will be fine.  Your neighbour will, in all likelihood, take care of Browning because he’s about to be grounded for skiving off school.  If he won’t, Mrs. Hudson would love to.  She’s quite enamoured of you and your dog.  I have been treated to an extensive discourse on this matter both yesterday evening and this morning, so I know she would leap at the chance to coddle your pathetic attempt at subverting your wife’s desire to reproduce.  It’s nothing more than a transparent attempt at avoiding your marital issues.”  His voice turned scathing, “And quite cliche, I must say.  I mean a dog, John.  Really?  It’s like you just followed some worn out romantic comedy trope instead of actually attempting to think of something original.”

“Fuck you, you know that?” John snapped, “ At least I _tried_ to get along with Mary.  Doesn’t look like you make much of an effort with anyone.  Seems to me the only reason Lestrade keeps you around is to do his job for him.  It’s _certainly_ not for your charming personality.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened fractionally, and then he pulled back into his corner of the cab and turned his attention fully to his phone.  John crossed his arms and stared out of his window, but the longer the silence drew out between them, the more John tuned in to the silent hurt Sherlock radiated from the far side of the backseat.  John cocked his head back towards the inside of the cab, and found Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.  Sherlock continued to scowl defiantly at his phone, but hurt, rather than anger, lurked behind his pale eyes.  

“Why do you do that?” John asked, trying to give Sherlock an out.

“Hmm?” Sherlock hummed, raising his eyebrows and feigning mystification.

“You know exactly what I mean,” John pressed, “Why do you push and push at the one thing you know will piss someone off?”

“Probably the same reason you don’t try very hard to keep all that anger you’ve got simmering covered up,” Sherlock answered with a small shrug.

John opened his mouth to reply, but Sherlock cut him off, “We’re here.”  

He paid their fare and chivvied John ahead of him onto the pavement.  As they made their way up to the front entrance for Shad Sanderson, John eyed Sherlock who continued to poke at his phone as they walked.  John knew why he never bothered to keep his short temper under control; it made it easier for him to keep people at arm’s length.  Mary had been the person he’d let get the closest, and she had taken the one aspect of himself that he’d held the closest until he’d trusted her with it and she had turned it into an object of ridicule.  He pushed everyone away after that, even the people he’d called friends in his unit in Afghanistan.

Sherlock quickened his pace to slip into the revolving door just ahead of John, leaving him to step in right behind.  They came out into a bright, modern building: all glass and chrome and sleek, smooth lines.  At the top of the four low steps that separated the entry from the rest of the lobby proper, a line of police tape separated the crime scene from the gaggle of curious onlookers who had been herded down to the doors in what John assumed was a not so subtle hint for the patrons and employees to simply write the day off as a loss.

An attractive woman armed with a radio and a scowl stopped them at the cordon. Her scowl deepened when she caught sight of Sherlock, “What are you doing here?”

The frown Sherlock had been wearing since John had told him off in the cab turned into a scowl to match the woman who’d stopped them, and he spat, “What do you think I’m doing here, Sally?”

Sally crossed her arms over her chest, “Coming round to poke your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Sherlock pocketed his phone and stared her down, “Considering I was expressly invited by someone who outranks you, I don’t really think you get a say in the matter.”

Sally reluctantly raised the police tape, and Sherlock stepped under, but when John made to follow, she dropped it between them, “Who’s this?” she demanded, jerking her head in John’s direction.

Sherlock glanced at John as if he was seeing him for the first time, and John prayed that he wasn’t still so hurt that he abandoned John and went off to do whatever it was he did alone.  “He’s with me,” Sherlock said simply.

“You’re not technically supposed to be here,” she pointed out, “Why on earth would I let you bring in a...friend?”

“I didn’t say he was a friend,” Sherlock corrected, “I simply said he was with me.  He’s an outside medical opinion if you really must know.”  Sherlock didn’t wait for Sally to make any sort of determination one way or another; instead, he lifted the tape and beckoned John under with a jerk of his head.

“Fine,” Sally snapped, but her tone softened when she continued, “It’s a bit of a grisly one.”

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and moved away towards the curtains that the police had hung to shroud the worst of the scene from view.  John shot Sally a thin smile and started to make his way over to where Sherlock had disappeared behind the barricade.

“Be careful, alright?” she called after him.  John glanced back and nodded, then stepped around the barricade and promptly wished he hadn’t.


	5. Get Down to the Heart of the Matter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the fact that this chapter title is little more than a cheesy pun, but I've been reading quite a bit of Oscar Wilde recently, so it's all I'm good for at the moment.
> 
> Also, Kestrel337 is the light in my writing darkness. This story is so much more polished than it *ever* would have been without her. Thank you.

On the floor in the middle of the Shad Sanderson lobby, a young-ish man with a thin build and a shock of ginger hair lay on the floor stark naked except for an old fashioned balance scale sitting on his chest.  Both the man’s hands had been cut off and had been put into the pans palm up.  Whoever had murdered him had also decided to carve a huge slit into his chest just below his diaphragm and had somehow managed to remove the victim’s entire heart and put the whole thing into the left hand.  John steeled himself and bent down to look closer at the scales and grimaced when he realized what exactly was sitting in the dead man’s left hand.

Sherlock stood back, watching John look his fill at the tableau laid out for them.  John glanced back and met Sherlock’s cool, calculating gaze, “What the hell is this?” he demanded.

Sherlock joined John at the corpse’s side, snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves, “What does it look like?” he asked.

“Fucking sadism is what it looks like,” John shot back.  “I’m serious, Sherlock.  What the hell _is_ this?  Is this a serial killer?”

“Jesus, don’t even think that,” Lestrade’s voice threatened from the far side of the barricade, “I haven’t got the time for a serial killer on top of everything else.”

“This isn’t a serial killer,” Sherlock muttered from his position kneeling over the body.  

“How do you know?” Lestrade demanded, “I mean, this is one of the banks with the unauthorized fee hikes.  We don’t even know who this guy is yet; he might be some City Boy who authorized the hikes so he could skim off the extra money, and now people like him are going to start popping up at all the banks with rate increases.”

“Oh, calm down, Lestrade,” Sherlock dismissed, straightening to his full height.  “This man isn’t directly affiliated with the bank.”

“How do you know?” John blurted, “He’s starkers.  This guy could be anyone.”

“Well, he’s not,” Sherlock snapped, standing up.  “This is the man we went to try to visit earlier today.  This,” he pointed at the body between them, “Is Duncan Ross.”

“Okay,” Lestrade acknowledged, dragging the word out, “Isn’t he the one who hired that red-headed guy who came to you to vet his job offer?”

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured thoughtfully, “He was.”  He made his way slowly around the corpse, bending occasionally to poke and prod at Duncan Ross’s dead body.

“Why’d his hands get cut off?” John asked, pointing, “And why his heart?  And the scale?”

Sherlock ignored his questions in favour of picking up the heart and weighing it in his hands.  “Dr. Watson,” he said, making John come to attention with the use of his professional title, “What do you think of this heart?”

“I...uh…” John hesitated and looked at Lestrade for some sort of reassurance.

“Oh, go on, help yourself,” he said, waving John towards Sherlock who was still holding the heart in both his hands.

John pulled on the pair of nitrile gloves he’d grabbed before coming behind the barrier and held out his hands to receive the heart from Sherlock.  He took Duncan Ross’s heart from Sherlock and weighed it briefly in his hands before turning it over to examine from every angle.  “Well, this is probably what killed him,” John ventured.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Yes, clearly.  And?”

John shrugged and passed the heart back, “I don’t know.  I mean, the whole thing seems kind of Shakespeare to me.  I think the only thing that would be more cliche would be if it’d been a pound of flesh.  Does this guy have a bunch of outstanding loans?”

Sherlock placed the heart gently back into the outstretched left palm and took a step back to examine the wider picture again.  “Loans seem like the obvious answer, I agree,” he said.

“But?” Lestrade prompted.

“Too soon to tell,” Sherlock hedged.  “It’s an explanation for some of the facts, but not all of the facts.”  He snapped off his gloves then pulled his phone out of his pocket and started tapping madly at it.

“You’re still hanging around then,” Lestrade murmured, turning to John.

“I, uh, yeah.  For now, anyway,” John answered.  He shrugged, unsure why Lestrade was asking.

“I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to run you off yet with his deductions,” Lestrade stated frankly.

John chuckled, “I think he’s trying.  Keeps picking at my divorce.”

“It’s what he does,” Lestrade said.  “He’s good at it, don’t get me wrong, but he’s a real dick too.”

“I’ve noticed,” John said, laughing outright now.  “Why’s he like this, anyway?”

“I…” Lestrade started to answer, but stopped himself to rethink.  When he started again, he spoke much more cautiously, “I’m not sure that’s my story to tell.  When it comes down to it, he’s...he’s made some tough choices, and now that he’s got himself back where he wants to be, I think he just wants to protect himself.”

John nodded.  He could understand that.  He had seen the way Sherlock had instantly pulled back any sort of familiarity after John had snapped at him in the cab.  He hadn’t renewed any sort of friendly overtures since.  

“You seem to put up with him alright,” Lestrade suggested with a small shrug.

“I don’t know that I do,” John admitted, “I was a bit rude to him on the way over here.”

“Sociopath,” Sherlock cut in, still looking at his phone.

“I’m sure whoever did this isn’t normal,” John agreed.

“Not this,” Lestrade corrected, “Him.” Lestrade pointed at Sherlock, “He’s under the impression he’s a ‘high functioning sociopath.’”  He shrugged, “His words, not mine.”

John scrutinized Lestrade’s expression carefully, “You don’t believe him?” 

“Not as such, no,” Lestrade answered.  “He talks tough, but, well, I think he’s this way because his heart is close to his skin, and his skin’s just not that thick.”

John blinked, considering Sherlock’s abrasive behaviour in that light, “I never--”

“If you’re quite finished talking about me while you think I’m not listening,” Sherlock interrupted.  John clamped his mouth shut guiltily, but Lestrade didn’t look the least bit sorry.

“Find anything?” he asked, stepping over to reexamine the corpse from Sherlock’s side.

“Mmm, a bit,” he conceded.  “Are you aware that severing hands is a common punishment for thieves?”

“This guy doesn’t exactly look like a bank robber,” Lestrade said, shaking his head.

“You do realize there are a fair few ways to commit robbery without actually walking into a bank while wearing a mask and wielding a shotgun, yes?” Sherlock asked, condescension fairly dripping from his voice.

“Yeah, but what bank is going to make a public spectacle of someone who’s robbed them like this?” John asked.  “Why not just turn them over to police?”

“Why indeed?” Sherlock muttered, staring down at the corpse.  He blinked thoughtfully down at the body for a few more moments, then looked up to catch John’s eye, “We’re supposed to meet James Wilson in an hour, so we should be making tracks.”

“Hey,” Lestrade said, putting a hand out to stop Sherlock’s departure, “If you figure anything out, you call me, yeah?  I don’t want a repeat of last time.”

Sherlock adopted a wounded look, “Of course Detective Inspector.  Why would I do anything else?”

“Stuff it, Sherlock,” he retorted with a rueful laugh, “I’ve met you, so I know exactly what you’re capable of.”  

“I was hardly in any danger,” Sherlock protested indignantly.

“All the same,” Lestrade retorted, “You know my rule.  You also know how I’ll enforce it.”  He caught Sherlock’s eye, “Do  _ not _ go off on your own.”

“I’ll call you,” Sherlock promised as he ushered John out from behind the barricade and back towards the scowling Sally manning the cordon.

“You off then?” She asked, lifting the tape to let them pass.

“So it would seem,” Sherlock said coolly.  He turned towards the door, but as John made to follow, he felt a hand land gently on his arm.  John turned back to see Sally looking at him searchingly.

“Bit of advice?” Sally offered, “Don’t get too close to him.”

“Too close to who?” John asked, playing dumb.

“Sherlock Holmes,” she answered, nodding at Sherlock’s retreating back.  “He’s not like you or me.  You know why he comes around here, don’t you?”  John shook his head.  “He likes it.  The weirder the better from what I’ve seen.”

“So?” John asked, feeling his hackles rise.  He’d spent enough time in dangerous situations to feel when something about someone was off, and weird as Sherlock was, he didn’t seem dangerous.

“Well, there’s really only one sort who enjoys weird murder,” she pointed out.  When John continued to stare blankly, she rolled her eyes and finally snapped at him, “He’s a sociopath.”  Her tone softened as she brought the conversation back to him, “Just...just be careful, alright?”

John nodded, “Yeah.  Sure.  I’ll do that.”  She dropped his arm, and John turned and ducked under the tape.  He hurried to catch up to Sherlock who was standing next to a waiting cab, one foot in the door and clearly ready to be on his way.

In the taxi, Sherlock wedged himself into the far corner of the seat, and scowled at John over the top of his mobile, “So, what did the lovely Sergeant Donovan want to tell you about me?”

“How do you know she wanted to tell me anything about you?” John asked, immediately on the defensive.

Sherlock rolled his eyes down at his phone, “Oh, please.  It hardly takes a genius to figure out.”  

John stared stonily back, daring Sherlock put his foot in it.  “All right, then, genius.  This should be an easy one.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, “She stopped you physically, indicates a sense of urgency.  Looking at me while she’s talking to you gives her subject away.  The way you pulled away from her as she talked indicated you disagreed with her opinion, or that you were at least displeased by her bringing it up.  Simple, really.”

“But?” John prompted, willing Sherlock to see the part where he’d essentially decided on the spot to ignore her warning.

“But nothing,” Sherlock said neutrally, “She’s offering sound advice.  I’m fairly certain a high-functioning sociopath isn’t the sort of person most people want to associate with.”

John barked out a sharp laugh, “What a load of shit.  If you’re a sociopath, then I’m the ruddy queen.  I’ve done a psych rotation, and you may be a right dick, but you really don’t strike me as a sociopath.”

“High.  Functioning.”  Sherlock enunciated crisply.  

“Okay,” John agreed, preferring to just let the matter drop.  He privately disagreed, but he also recognized a futile fight when he saw one.  

Sherlock nodded as if John’s agreement settled the matter and returned to his texting.  John just shook his head and went back to watching the city slip past as they rode in an easy quiet.

Instead of taking them back to Baker Street, their cab ultimately drew up in front of a posh looking Indian restaurant, and John got himself out while Sherlock leaned forward to pay.  “You don’t mind Indian, do you?” he asked, looking up at John through the cab window.  “I told James we’d meet him at Baker Street around nine, so you’ve got time to eat.”

“Not a bit,” John replied, realizing how hungry he was now that the prospect of food seemed imminent.  “I haven’t had decent Indian food in ages.”

Sherlock led the way into the restaurant, and breezed past the small crowd clearly waiting for tables and right up to the fit young man working at the host’s station.  When he looked up and saw Sherlock, a spark of recognition lit in his eye and grinned broadly, “Nice to see you again, Sherlock.”  

Sherlock smiled warmly back, “How’s your sister, Naveen?”

“She’s better.  Getting on with school’s really doing her good.  I think the change of scene has helped too.”  He grabbed menus from the rack next to him and came around the stand to escort them to a table.  “I’ve got your favourite spot available, if you want it,” he said, smiling coyly at Sherlock.  He led them to a cozy table right next to a window, and as far away from the raucous party sitting in the middle of the restaurant as he could get them.  Once they were settled, he handed them each a menu, but spoke only to Sherlock, “I’ll get your waiter right away.”

“He’s a bit keen,” John remarked from behind his menu.

“Who?” Sherlock asked, “Naveen?”

“I guess,” John shrugged, clearly uninterested in the host’s name.  “He flirt with you like that every time you come in?”

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, thoughtful, “I don’t believe so.”  He turned his attention back to the menu in front of him, and when he spoke again, his voice radiated a clear lack of concern on the issue, “And anyway, even if he did, it wouldn’t do him much good.”

“Got a girlfriend do you?” John muttered under his breath.

Sherlock chuckled ruefully, “Girlfriends aren’t quite my area.”

John’s face flamed.  He hadn’t expected Sherlock to hear him, especially since he’d been aiming for facetious.  “Oh,” he said, trying to salvage at least a single shred of his dignity, “So, um, you have a boyfriend, then?  Which is fine.”

Sherlock closed his menu and fixed John with a level stare, “When, exactly, did my personal life become any of your business?”

“I’m just trying to make conversation,” he replied, trying to preserve what had been a promising evening by resisting the urge to snap back.  “So you’ve got a boyfriend?”

“Not any--” Sherlock caught himself and finished in a carefully neutral tone, “No.  I don’t.”

Their waiter finally decided to appear and spare John from further humiliation.  Sherlock ordered a single plate of samosas for himself, but John got himself an entree sized curry.  Once she disappeared to put in their order, John wanted to try to restart a more amicable line of conversation.

“So,” he tried, “What’d you do for that bloke who seated us?”

Sherlock looked down at his hands on the table and shrugged, “Nothing much.”

“Oh come on,” John needled, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone who wasn’t an actual celebrity breeze in past everyone waiting and get such a choice table.”

Sherlock continued examining his hands where they lay against the dark wood of the table as he spoke again, “I...she was accused of something she clearly neither did nor was it something she was even capable of doing.  I was able to help her out.”

John nodded, sensing Sherlock’s unwillingness to delve into the particulars, “Okay.”  He hesitated, at a loss for how to prevent them from lapsing into either an awkward silence or another fight.  

Fortunately, Sherlock saved him, “She’s moved on quite well.  Going away to university helped the most, I think.”

John nodded, “I’m sure.  It’s nice to get away to a new place sometimes.  Make a fresh start.”  He started poking at the chicken curry that their waiter had just set down in front of him, but he spared Sherlock a glance up from under his lashes, “I know it did for me.”

Sherlock cocked his head to one side and ignored his samosas in favour of giving John another thorough once-over, “Mmm,” he hummed.  “Alcoholic brother and a stereotypically bigoted father would make anyone so full of contradictions want to reinvent themselves.”

“Okay, how’d you know?” John laughed good naturedly.  

“Phone,” Sherlock responded simply.  

“How do you know I didn’t buy my phone myself,” John asked with a smirk.  Sherlock just shook his head, dismayed at his obtuse answer, so John took his phone out of his jeans pocket and passed it over, “Show me?” he asked hopefully.

Sherlock picked up John’s mobile and turned it over slowly.  John was so entranced watching his long, thin fingers rotate the phone delicately that he almost forgot what he’d asked.  When Sherlock set it down gently on the table next to John’s water glass, John snapped his eyes up to meet Sherlock’s in a challenge edged with playfulness, “And?”

Sherlock smiled shyly, clearly pleased to have the opportunity to show off his deductive reasoning.  “Well, the model’s recent release date and the features of the phone suggest this is a mobile much more geared towards a younger consumer, but you’re not so old that this would be an unreasonable purchase--”

“Thanks, I think,” John smirked.

“Don’t be petty,” Sherlock scolded.

John set down his fork and leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, “Okay, so the type of phone that wouldn’t be unreasonable for someone like me, but you still couldn’t see me buying for myself.  Go on.”

Sherlock nodded, “You’re a former army medic.  Not the type to spend money on frivolous gadgets.”

“How do you know Mary didn’t buy it for me?” John asked, smiling at Sherlock’s certainty in spite of himself.

“Someone who wants something as expensive as a baby isn’t going to waste money on a luxury item when an economical model would work just as well,” Sherlock dismissed.  He picked John’s mobile up from off the table and turned it over so the back of the case was facing up.

“The engraving,” John murmured as Sherlock ran his thumb across the letters etched into the metal, feeling foolish for having forgotten it was there.

“You’re around this phone every day, of course you gloss over things like that,” Sherlock said with a small smile.  He put the phone back on the table next to John’s left hand.  “The text of the engraving gives a bit away too,” he continued: 

_ Harry,  _

_ stronger every day   _

_ XXX  _

_ Clara  _

He looked up from the tiny space between John’s curled fingers and the flat lines of the mobile to catch John’s eye, “Three kisses would suggest a serious romantic attachment, and the price would make this more appropriate for a wife rather than a girlfriend.”  Sherlock paused, seemed to consider his next words more carefully, but then plowed on anyway, “The fact that Clara bought the phone for him suggests he’s either not got very much interest in this sort of discretionary spending, or he’s not permitted to have very much say-so.  Pair that with the scratches around the charging port, and there you have it.  Alcoholic brother.”

“Harry’s my sister, actually,” John clarified, pleased he’d caught Sherlock out on one of his deductions.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes dismissively, “Of course.”  He caught the waiter’s eye and signalled for their bill.  “Doesn’t particularly matter, though, if I’m right.”

John clenched his hand where it still lay on the table next to the phone, “You said I came from a family of bigots,” he gritted out.

“It’s your attitude,” Sherlock said, shuffling his completely untouched samosas from one side of the plate to the other.  “You’re always trying to figure out what the ‘right’ answer is.  Especially in an emotionally charged situation.”

“I’m what?” John asked, feeling his face flush, but whether it was from embarrassment or anger, he couldn’t quite tell.

Sherlock shrugged and met John’s eye with a sidelong glance, “You’re overly concerned with what the socially acceptable answer is in difficult situations.  Speaks to a repressive upbringing because you’re not proud of the ideology you were raised with, so you’ve tried to distance yourself from it however you can.”  His eyes dropped to the table as he finished, “It’s all in what you say, you know.”

A sharp, harsh laugh escaped John’s mouth, “It’s all in what I say?”

“Well, sometimes it’s in what you leave out, too,” Sherlock conceded with a small smile.

“Like what?” John asked, thinking to himself that while Sherlock was right, he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of actually saying so.

“Just...things,” Sherlock hedged still looking at the table, clearly unwilling to elaborate.

John drained the last of his water, “Oh, come on,” he needled.

Instead of answering, Sherlock flipped his wrist over to glance at his watch, “Now’s not the time,” he diverted.  “We’re due to meet James soon, so we’d best get going if we don’t want to keep him waiting.”  He stood and grabbed his coat, shrugging himself into it without another word.  

“Fine,” John said then stood and pulled his coat on as well, slightly baffled at Sherlock’s decision to simply cut the conversation off so abruptly.  

He followed Sherlock silently to the door where Sherlock paused to say goodbye to Naveen who was still so pleased about whatever Sherlock had done for his sister that he came out from behind his hosting stand to hug Sherlock.  They left and John continued to trail after Sherlock onto the pavement and into a cab that would, presumably, take them back to Baker Street.  In the cab, Sherlock lost himself in his phone and John lost himself in his thoughts.

Sherlock had been right, of course.  Well, not about Harry being his brother, but about the rest of it.  Harry had been struggling with the bottle since she before she was old enough to buy her own drinks.  She’d snuck into bars and clubs and flirted with any tall, dark-haired girl who would look her way until they started buying her fruity cocktails.  She’d graduated to shots before she’d graduated school, and university had seen her leave the candy flavoured drinks behind for straight shots and then finally straight from the bottle.  

If he was honest, Harry was probably the easier of the two things Sherlock had brought up to suss out about him, but he was no less wrong about the other.  John’s parents were nice people, there could be no doubt about that.  His mum worked the church rummage sales and gave a bit of money to Medecins sans Frontieres in his name every year around Christmas.  His dad had always been less the demonstrative type, but he would always spare John a firm clap on the shoulder and a tight smile after every rugby match he’d played in school.  

Sure, they’d loved him, but their expectations had been crystal clear.  Toe their line or else.  John first recognized it in the little slights they would let slip around people who were different.  Cold comments about the Catholics during the Troubles in the 90s, uncompromising positions about immigrants, especially after the War on Terror started, and a whole litany of abuse about the gay couple who lived quietly in the house down the road from them.

John knew how to walk the line his parents laid down.  He knew to keep his controversial opinions to himself and to not make a face when he disagreed with something they said.  Harry, on the other hand, had never learned that lesson.  She cried inconsolably for a week when their mum said she couldn’t play with Margaret from school anymore because mum said her parents were “IRA-sympathising trash.”  She ignored their father when he said “those damn people should just go back to where they came from” and went to volunteer at a resettlement charity for Afghan refugees.  She got into shouting matches with their father over the married ones’ relationship, and then took that fight one step further by bringing Sarah home to dinner.  Of all the stupid things Harry had done when they were kids, this one turned out to be by far the stupidest.  John had watched the fallout from that night expand and obliterate Harry’s entire relationship with their parents.  Dad no longer bragged to his mates about his daughter who studied chemical engineering and mum no longer sighed wistfully about wanting to go shopping with her best girl.

After that, John learned the language of circumspection.  He learned a smile and space to sit down erased the difference between Catholic and C of E quicker than words ever could.  He learned being able to tell cheesy jokes and relay common medical terms in Pashto distracted sick and wounded kids and reassured their parents quicker than rushing silently into the exam room ever would.  He learned that “I’m not gay” did not mean “I’m straight,” and that the girls who didn’t notice and the boys who did could always tell the difference.

“Sometimes what you don’t say is louder than what you do,” Sherlock murmured quietly without looking up from his phone.

John jumped and blushed, “I--”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock interrupted.  “I do also know the benefit of not saying everything I know the absolute instant I know it.”

As they drew up in front of 221, Sherlock reached for his wallet, but John put a hand on his arm to stop him, “You’ve paid twice already and gotten us dinner.  Let me, yeah?”  

Sherlock considered him for a moment, then let his hand drop away from his pocket, “Thank you, John.”  John nodded and dug out his wallet.

Mrs. Hudson met them in the entryway, “Sherlock, dear, that young computer gentleman is in your sitting room.”  Sherlock nodded and dashed up the stairs, stripping his coat off as he went.  John turned and opened his mouth, but Mrs. Hudson beat him to the punch, “Your neighbour’s gone out on a date, but he brought Browning over and said your ex-wife should be here by ten.  He’s had his dinner and a bit of a walk, and he’s having a nice nap by my radiator, so you just go on, and I’ll take care of her when she gets here.”

John nodded, “I...thank you.  I’m sorry about all this.”

“No, no,” Mrs. Hudson dismissed.  She smiled at him and patted his arm, “It’s nice to have someone about who makes Sherlock light up like this.  You’re going to be good for him.”

“I’m not…” John trailed off partway through his typical kneejerk response.

“Just because you’re not one thing doesn’t mean you’re not anything,” Mrs. Hudson filled in sagely.  She shooed him towards the stairs, “Go on, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of your kudos and comments are so lovely...thank you thank you.


	6. When is it Sociopathy and When is it just Weird?

When John got to the top of the stairs, he found James Wilson pacing the sitting room frantically while Sherlock lounged in his leather chair and watched him.  “What happened?” John asked after he’d watched Wilson make a couple turns of the room.

“Are you sure?” Wilson asked before Sherlock could answer John’s question.  “I mean, are you really sure it’s him?”

Sherlock cocked his head to one side and regarded Wilson intently as he continued to pace, “You showed me Duncan’s photo on RHL’s website when you came to ask me to investigate them after you were hired, so yes, I’m sure.”

Wilson collapsed onto the sofa, “God, shit, what does this mean for me?” he muttered despairingly.

“Well, assuming you didn’t murder him, not very much,” Sherlock responded, completely unconcerned with Wilson's fretting.

“Sherlock,” John scolded sharply.  He turned to Wilson who had dropped his head into his hands, “Would you like something to drink?  Tea, maybe?  Or something stronger?”

Wilson looked up at John, “Tea would be nice.  Thanks.”

John nodded and turned on his heel to retreat into the kitchen.  Once he was standing in front of the kitchen worktop, still covered in mannequin heads all staring intently at the backsplash, he realized he’d made the offer, but he didn’t actually know where any of the tea things were.  “You can do this,” he muttered and took a deep breath.  Filling the kettle and getting it heating wasn’t hard, and as soon as he had set it on the heating element and clicked it on, he went and slid the kitchen doors closed so that Wilson and, more importantly, Sherlock wouldn’t have to talk over him rattling around all the cabinets in the kitchen in search of tea and dishes.

He lucked out and found the tea in the first cabinet he opened, but it took opening two more doors to find the sugar bowl.  The cups and teapot and creamer were in the cupboard the absolute furthest from the tea, but he did find a tray on the shelf next to the teapot.  He pulled it all down and got the tray set and the tea into the pot to steep before he went in search of milk.  He pulled open the fridge, took one look inside, and promptly slammed the door shut again, no milk in hand.  Sherlock’s refrigerator was a bloody biohazard.  The top held what looked like the remains of a couple nights’ worth of takeaway leftovers, but the shelf below it housed a severed head in a pie plate.  The milk had been in the fridge door, but since it had been next to a bag of bloody, severed thumbs, John made the executive decision to give it a miss.  

He loaded everything up on the tray, and pushed the sliding door back open with his toe, “Here we are,” he said.  John smiled and set the tray down on the coffee table, “No milk, I’m afraid,” he lied, “Sherlock’s is empty.”

Sherlock looked like he was about to protest, but John shot him a look that dared him to open his mouth on the subject.  “Two sugars,” he muttered, flopping back into his chair.

“Just black for me, thanks,” Wilson murmured.

John nodded once and poured.  He smiled as he handed Wilson his, but scowled at Sherlock when he pushed his cup into his hand.

They drank in silence for a moment, savouring the warmth of the drink as a reprieve from a cold, damp evening.  Wilson set his cup down and ran his hands nervously down the legs of his trousers, “I, um, I’m not sure what to do now,” he admitted.

“You don’t need to do anything,” Sherlock said distractedly, clearly following five trails in his head at once.  “I need to have another chat with the detective inspector I know; try to get him to let me in on this.”

“Let you in on this?” Wilson asked, “Is Duncan’s death connected with me losing my job?”

“What?” Sherlock snapped, “I’m not...there’s not enough data yet.”  He stood, “I’ve got to see to some things, you should go home.  Tell your wife that your severance package won’t be that large but that it will allow you to upgrade the servers at your own firm.”

Wilson blinked up at Sherlock, stunned by his sudden dismissal, “Okay.  Um, you’ll call if you find anything out, right?”

Sherlock turned to his laptop that sat open on the desk, so John took up the thread of the conversation, “Yeah, he’ll call.  I’ll make sure of it.”

“Thank you,” Wilson paused at the top of the stairs and turned to smile wanly at John.  “I appreciate your help.  Both of you.”

After his footsteps disappeared down the stairs, John turned back to Sherlock who had actually seated himself at the desk.  He was typing at a breakneck speed, pausing only to click between tabs on the browser he had open.  

“So,” John said, leaning against the kitchen doorframe, “What was the point of that?”

Sherlock’s shoulder twitched under the confines of his suit jacket in a halfhearted shrug, “I needed to see his reaction.”

“You what?” John asked aghast.  “You dragged him all the way here to spring it on him that one of his colleagues was dead just to see his reaction?”

Sherlock turned and regarded John blankly, “Yes.  A man I know has a relationship to a dead man.  It would be absolutely foolish of me to disregard the connection.”

A sharp, mirthless laugh escaped John’s mouth.  “You are un-fucking-believable, do you know that?”

“Not really.”  Sherlock turned back to his tabs.  “Nearly four percent of the population has some degree of sociopathy.”

“Christ,” John shouted, then tried to moderate his volume “I can’t even begin to parse everything wrong with that.  I should probably just get going.”  Sherlock hummed vaguely in reply, but when John didn’t get any more acknowledgement than that, he shook his head and turned away.  

He trotted down the stairs to make sure Mary had come to get Browning before he went home.  He stopped at the door on the ground floor that Mrs. Hudson seemed to pop out from whenever Sherlock thundered up and down the stairs.  A soft yellow light glowed behind the door, so even though it was much later than John had thought, she was clearly still awake.  He knocked gently against the pebbled glass of her door, and stepped back to wait when he heard the sink shut off from within.

She opened her door just a small crack, but broke into a smile when she saw it was him, “Oh, John.”  She pulled her door open wider and stepped aside to let him in.  “Your  Mary was here about twenty minutes ago to pick up Browning.”

John nodded, “I’m sorry it was so late,” he said with a wan smile.

Mrs. Hudson flapped a hand at him, “Oh it’s no bother.  That silly boy’s up until all hours most of the time, and I’ve always been a bit of a night owl.”  She led him into her cozy sitting room and gestured for him to take the other chair at her little dining table.

“Can I ask you something?” John queried, looking at her from the corner of his eye.

“Of course, dear,” she said with a nod and a smile.  

“Is…” John stared at his shoes and jammed his hands in his pockets, “Is Sherlock always like that?”

“Like what?” Mrs. Hudson asked from where she had perched on the other chair, clearly confused by the question.

“Like, like this,” he said, gesturing up towards the first floor where the soft stamp of Sherlock’s shoes against the floorboards reminded them he was still there.  “Staying up late and being so abrupt and rude with everyone and, just, everything.”

When Mrs. Hudson smiled, it seemed a bit sad, “He has for as long as I’ve known him.”

“How long has that been?” John asked.

“Oh, now let me think,” she hummed.  “Well, I met him while I was still living in Florida, and he helped me wind up my late husband’s business and then he helped me move the rest of my things back here.  Once we were back, I went round to bring him some dinner as a thank you, and you should have seen the place where he was living in Montague Street.  It was little more than a squat.  I brought him straight back with me and he’s been rattling away upstairs ever since.”  Her eyes sharpened on John as her story wound down, “Why?”

“I…” John stammered, “He’s...he’s just a bit eccentric is all.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded her understanding, “He is at that.”  She glanced up at the ceiling where the sound of footsteps had been replaced with intermittent snatches of violin music, “He is good at what he does.”  Her eyes returned to John’s once more, “But I think he’s struggling just like you are.”

John scratched the back of his neck as Mrs. Hudson rose from her seat and begin to gather the last of her dishes, “What do you mean he’s struggling just like me?”

Mrs. Hudson turned back from her kitchen sink and answered simply, “You’re both lonely.”

John blinked down at the his hands where they’d come to rest on the formica surface of her table, “Why, um,” he cleared his throat and glanced up at where Mrs. Hudson was stood at the sink, “Why do you think I’m lonely?”

Mrs. Hudson returned her attention to her washing up and shrugged down at her basin of soapy water, “It’s late, Doctor Watson,” she said, “You should get going so you’re not a lump at work tomorrow.”

John nodded, silently thanking her for the out, “I’ll, um, yeah, I should be going.  Thank you for watching Browning while we were out.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled, “Of course.  He’s a little love.”

John said his goodbyes and hurried home from Sherlock’s flat and collapsed into his bed where he slept free from dreams or startled awakenings for the first time in weeks.

 

~~*~~

 

John spent the majority of the following day in A&E trying to pay strict attention to his patients and trying to ignore the gaggle of students following the other attending physician around on the first day of their emergency rotation.  The girl with the thin blonde hair who kept trying to diagnose everyone they saw before she’d even heard any of their symptoms made John roll his eyes with every new patient who came in.  He stopped for lunch around one, and in an effort to put Mrs. Hudson’s assertion of loneliness out of his head, shot his friend Mike a text to see if he was free too.  Mike’s reply that he was having a working lunch in the second storey lab but that John was welcome to join him made John smile and he pocketed his phone and set off for the labs.

John poked his head into the room Mike had identified, and could scarcely believe his eyes when he saw Mike sitting at the lab bench munching on a sandwich and talking to none other than Sherlock Holmes.

“John,” Mike smiled around his bite of sandwich, “Come in.  This is--”

“Sherlock,” John blurted, “What are you doing here?”

Sherlock glanced up from his seat in front of a microscope, “Oh.  John.  Come in.”

John rolled his eyes, “Thanks.”  He dropped onto the stool next to Mike, “So what’re you doing over here?  I thought you said you were teaching now.”

Mike smiled, “Yeah, I’m teaching.  I’ve turned them over to their departments today to start getting acquainted since they’ll be someone else’s problem in just a couple of weeks.”

John nodded, thinking back to his own days as a resident on rotations.  The sleepless nights.  The endless cramming.  The struggle to keep ahead on both his assignments and his bills.  He’d loved every moment of it.  

Mike elbowed him gently in the ribs, “So how did you and Sherlock come to be friends?” he asked under his breath.

“We’re not friends,” Sherlock rumbled from the far side of the lab bench.

“We’ve only just met,” John amended, trying to ignore the way Mike’s eyes softened at John over the abrupt dismissal.  “Some things he’d ordered got delivered to my place by mistake.”

Mike nodded his understanding, “That happens to Susan and me sometimes.  Especially when we were ordering everything for the baby.  What’d Sherlock order?”

John opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it right back, unsure how to explain twenty severed mannequin heads.

“Heads,” Sherlock filled the silence without looking up.

“I thought you got heads from Molls downstairs, though?” Mike queried.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to Mike and John couldn’t help but notice how they seemed to brighten at Mike’s question.  “Not those kinds of heads,” he said with an indulgent smirk.

“What other kind are there?” Mike asked with a chuckle.

“Mannequin heads,” John supplied, and Mike’s chuckle turned into a full out laugh.

“Whatever for?” he gasped through his mirth.

“Research,” Sherlock snapped.

Mike instantly stopped laughing, “Is this for one of your cases, then?” he asked much more solicitously.

“Yes,” Sherlock said shortly.

“Oh, come on,” Mike soothed, “I never know what you’re up to, but it’s all so interesting.  What’s this one about?”

Sherlock flipped off the lamp on the microscope and leaned back, popping his spine.  “Redheads,” he said simply.

“You want to be one, or…?” Mike’s voice trailed away in hopes that Sherlock would fill in the blanks.

“I’m looking into one,” Sherlock said.  He rounded on John, “John, what do you know about tattoos?”

“Um…” John hedged, “Beyond ink and needles and having had to put a bit of lotion on twice a day while it was healing, not much.  Why?”

Sherlock’s eyes sharpened on John, “You have a tattoo?  May I see it?”

“Mmm, no,” John replied.  “It’s not that interesting anyway.  What do you want to know about tattoos?”

“Symbolic selection,” he answered as if that made any sort of sense.  

“Symbolic selection,” John repeated, searching for clarity in those two words.  He glanced at Mike, but his friend just shrugged helplessly.

“Why people choose the things they do,” Sherlock clarified.

“Oh,” John nodded, “That makes sense.”

“So?” Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrows, “Why did you pick yours?”

John shrugged and picked at a bit of tape someone had stuck to the top of the bench, “Dunno.  Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Sherlock nodded, but the light in his eye told John he wouldn’t let it go so easily.  Instead of pursuing a fruitless line of enquiry, Sherlock pulled a photograph out of his jacket pocket and slid it over to John, “What do you make of that one?”

John picked up the photo and let Mike lean over his shoulder while he looked at it.  The photo was of what looked like the inside of someone’s forearm with one full colour tattoo in the middle of the arm and a second, smaller one done in black ink on the inside of the wrist.  

The larger piece showed a beautifully rendered cat’s head grinning up at him from under the brim of a jauntily angled top hat.  The artist had coloured the cat’s face in a vivid orange tabby, and the black on the hat’s shading was so smooth it almost looked like brushed silk.  The cat’s sharp teeth peeked out in a cheeky grin, and the green eyes held a spark that spoke of mischief.  The other, smaller tattoo ended just above where the arm’s hand should have been.  It was no larger than a 50 pence coin, and it looked to be nothing more than a simple, eight-pointed star.  

“Is this Duncan Ross’s arm?” John asked, looking up from the picture at Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded, “Yes.”  He came around to hover over John’s other shoulder and he pointed at the grinning cat, “What do you know about that one?”

“Looks like a cat,” John hazarded, glancing at Mike for external validation.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Well, yes.  What about the symbolism?” he demanded.

John shrugged, “Dunno, really,” he admitted.  He handed Sherlock the photograph back, “Why?  Does it mean something?”

“It can,” Sherlock replied.  “It all depends, though.”

“On what?” Mike asked, clearly intrigued.

“Many things,” Sherlock said, stepping away and beginning to tidy up the array of slides he’d left scattered across the lab bench.  “Who the artist is, who Ross associated himself with while he was alive, sometimes even colouring can have significance.”  Sherlock dropped his slides into a small box and shot Mike a thin smile as he pulled his coat on, “You should get back to those term papers.”  He turned to John, “Mrs. Hudson usually likes to pester me with food around 7:30.”  With that, he picked up his box, patted his pockets with his free hand, and waltzed out the lab door.

“What was that all about,” John wondered aloud as the lab door swung back on its hinges.

“Sounds like a dinner invite,” Mike said, elbowing John in the ribs.

John laughed and pushed his arm away, “I shouldn’t think so.”  He sobered and sighed a little resignedly, “I don’t think he can stand me, really.”

Mike shook his head, “No, he’s been coming round here for almost two years now, and he treats you the best out of anyone I’ve seen.  He’s made three separate lab assistants of mine cry.”  John scowled, trying to convey his disbelief with a simple twist of his lips.  “I’m serious.  That Molly down in the lab must be some kind of emotional masochist the way she lets him carry on when he’s down there.  He’s--”

“Wait,” John cut in, “Why is he down in the mortuary?  I thought that was private except for the police.”

“He works for them,” Mike answered.  John just stared.  “With them,” Mike tried again.  “At arm’s length from them.”  When John continued to stare, Mike sighed, “Oh you know what I mean.  He’s taken you out to one and all.”

“He didn’t take me out,” John snapped, seizing on the exact turn of Mike’s phrase that probably didn’t even mean anything.  “It wasn’t a date.”

“Didn’t say it was,” Mike laughed.  “Anyway, there is something I was _trying_ to say.  Sherlock seems to like you.  I’m not sure exactly where he’s from or any of that, but I know he’s been on his own for a long time.”  John nodded to show he was listening.  “He’s unlike anyone else I know.  You’re more than a bit like him, you know.”

John elbowed Mike away, “No I’m not.  He keeps bags of bloody thumbs in his fridge.”  

“I know,” Mike replied blithely.  “Who do you think calmed Morrison in the dissecting lab down enough to get them for him?”

“God, Mike,” John cried, “You can’t.  You know that’s a violation of hospital policy and a public health hazard besides.”  

Mike shrugged and nodded, “He’s not as crazy as keeping severed body parts with the food would make him seem.  Go, let his landlady feed you.  You could do with a good meal and a pleasant view.”

John rolled his eyes, “Fine, fine.  If this goes sideways, though, I’m blaming you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will do my level best to stay on schedule for the next update (should be 4/3), but I've got out of town races for the next three weeks.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left comments and kudos...knowing you're enjoying this is beyond rewarding :)


	7. Hungry? Come Have Dinner.

John escaped from the hospital a scant half hour after his shift ended.  He’d bribed one of the other doctors on shift with him to help him get through his charting by offering to take two of the students for an hour the next time they were in A&E.  He hurried home, showered the vaguely antiseptic smell of hospital off himself, and redressed in dark jeans and a slate shirt one of the nurses had once said complemented his eyes.  He’d dressed, he noticed absently, like he normally would for a first date.  He finished brushing his hair back into its usual tidy sweep then smirked at his reflection in the mirror and turned to go.  

His good mood lasted until he got to his front door, where he stopped short, suddenly unsure.  Just because Sherlock had made mention of what time he usually ate did not mean that now, several hours later, he had any interest in seeing John show up at his door to impose.  He dithered in the entryway for a few moments over whether or not his presence at 221 would be welcome, and he’d finally decided to just change into pyjamas and go investigate his own fridge to find something worth heating up when his phone buzzed with an incoming text.

_ If this is John, could you come over to 221 and sort your mate out for me?  Greg Lestrade _

John groaned at Sherlock getting Greg to do his dirty work.  He stabbed out a quick reply and hit send.

_ Sorry to disappoint, but he’s not my ‘mate.’  And if you can’t sort him out, I’m quite sure I won’t be able to. _

John’s phone didn’t even have time to go dim before it vibrated in his hand with Lestrade’s reply:

_ Could have fooled me.  I’ve known him for years, and I’ve never seen him latch onto someone this fast.  Just come over and have some of Mrs. Hudson’s food and keep Himself company. _

John reread Greg’s latest text several times then burst out laughing.  Put it like that, and John decided he probably wouldn’t be quite as unwelcome as he’d managed to convince himself.  With renewed resolve, he pocketed his phone and pulled on his shoes, then trotted down the stairs where he grabbed his jacket and stepped out onto Baker Street.  

Standing in front of the black door, John felt another twinge of nerves.  He took a deep breath and rang Sherlock’s bell before he could lose his resolve and skulk home again.  Mrs. Hudson poked her head out the front door a suspiciously short time later and greeted him with a warm smile and a gentle hug, “Welcome back, John.  You’re just in time to eat.”

John smiled and nodded as he stepped past her into the entry way, “Thanks.  I don’t mean to impose, but--”

“No, no,” Mrs. Hudson dismissed, shooing him up the stairs before she ducked quickly into her flat to pick up a tray loaded down with covered dishes.  “He’s up there with that nice inspector, so you just go right up and make yourself at home.  I’ll be right behind you with dinner.”

“Do you need any help with that?” John asked, gesturing to the tray in her hands and pulling her door closed behind her.

“Not at all.  Go right up.  He’s been waiting.”  With that, Mrs. Hudson dismissed him with a jerk of her head towards the first storey.

John nodded and made his way up the stairs.  He hesitated at the sitting room door when he heard Sherlock disagreeing strenuously, if quietly, with Lestrade, “You know it’s the right thing to do,” he was insisting.  “He’s directly linked to my client and RHL  _ and _ he knew both Vince and Hugo.  That can’t be a coincidence.”

“But what if it is,” Lestrade said, sounding tired.  “I mean, blokes do know each other.  It doesn’t necessarily mean there’s some sort of conspiracy.”

John put his hand out to open the sitting room door, when Sherlock raised his voice to a shout, “John.  Why don’t you stop lurking on the stairs and come give us your opinion?”

John felt his face heat, but he grit his teeth against his embarrassment and pushed the door open.  Sherlock and Lestrade stood facing each other across the coffee table, locked in some sort of confrontation.  Sherlock was glaring at Lestrade as if his presence were a personal affront, but Lestrade just looked exhausted. 

“Um, am I interrupting?” John asked, glancing from one to the other, but leery of actually getting between the two of them if they were fighting.

“Of course you’re not,” Mrs. Hudson interjected from where she’d appeared in the kitchen door.  She turned her attention to Lestrade, “Did you want to stay for dinner too, Inspector?  There’s plenty enough for three.”

Lestrade smiled at the offer, “I’d--”

“Oh I don’t think so,” Sherlock cut him off, glaring, “He’s clearly got nothing for me, so why should I offer him anything.”

Mrs. Hudson gasped and opened her mouth to protest, but Lestrade stepped smoothly into the gap Sherlock’s rudeness had created, “It’s kind of you to offer, Mrs. Hudson, but I’ve got an absolute avalanche of work waiting for me back at the office.”  He dug in his coat pocket and fished out his car keys before turning to Sherlock, who still looked affronted that the DI wasn’t simply giving in to his every whim.  “Don’t look at me like I’ve stolen your lolly.  I haven’t heard word one from the guys in specialised crime, so right now I couldn’t bring you in even if I wanted to.”  

Sherlock turned pointedly to his computer and started clicking through the open tabs on his browser, ignoring Lestrade.  Lestrade rolled his eyes, “Fine.”  He pointed at John, “Make sure he stays out of trouble.  And that he eats.”

As Lestrade’s footsteps receded down the stairs, Mrs. Hudson reemerged from the kitchen with a plate full of what smelled like chicken parmesan.  “You’ll eat, won’t you John?”  

John didn’t miss the way she’d completely bypassed offering Sherlock any food, but thought it best not to comment.  “That would be great, thanks,” John said with a smile.  He seated himself at the desk because a quick peek in the kitchen had confirmed his suspicions that every available horizontal surface still had red-heads bolted to the edges.  He had his first bite halfway to his mouth when he glanced up at Sherlock who had moved away from the table and was now staring at a collection of odds and ends he’d tacked to the wall above the sofa in some sort of flowchart.  “Aren’t you eating?” John asked.  

Sherlock shrugged dismissively, “Not while I’m working.  It slows my brain.”

“Pretty sure it doesn’t,” John muttered to his plate.  The first bite made him groan in delight.  “Mrs. Hudson, this is amazing.”

“Oh, thank you, dear,” she replied.  “Sherlock,” she turned her attention on her tenant who was still fully engrossed in the flowchart on the wall, “Are you sure you don’t want anything?  I’ve made one of your favourites.”

“Mrs. Hudson, I know we’ve had this discussion before.  Several times, in fact,” Sherlock snapped.

Mrs. Hudson sighed in resignation and returned to the kitchen to cover the leftovers and store them in the fridge.  “John,” she paused on her way out the door, “If he gets hungry I’ve left his dinner.”

John nodded his acknowledgement to Mrs. Hudson then turned to give Sherlock his full attention, “So, why did you want me to come over?”

Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder, “I think better when I talk aloud.  You being here saves Mrs. Hudson shouting up the stairs because she thinks I’m talking to her.”  He turned back to his bizarre collage, “What do you actually know about these ATM fee hikes?”

“Other than the fact that they’re a ruddy nuisance?” John asked.  Sherlock’s lips quirked into a half smile.  John put down his fork and frowned, trying to think back.  “Well, I know they started a while ago, and they only seem to last until people notice them.  Once anyone makes any sort of a fuss, the bank seems to backtrack right away.  Reduces the fees back to what they were before.”

Sherlock nodded, “But no offers of refunding the higher fees.”

“Not that I’ve seen,” John agreed.  He trailed his fork through the marinara sauce that had pooled around the half-eaten chicken on his plate, thinking.  “It’s weird,” John said into the thoughtful silence, “The banks always seem shocked that they’ve raised their own fees.  I guess that’s just them trying to cover their tracks for being such dicks about gouging people.”

Sherlock had turned back to his weird flowchart, but he whipped his head around at John’s speculation, “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” John hedged.  “It just seems strange.  No announcement that they’re going to raise the ATM fees and then backtracking on them the instant people notice and get mad.  I don’t think Netflix backed down on their fee rise and there was a real chance of blood in the streets over that one.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but he was cut off when his phone started ringing from its spot on the coffee table.  He snatched it up off the table and scowled down at the screen before he answered it.  “Yes?”

John couldn’t hear the caller’s words, but he could tell the general tone.  Whoever was on the line sounded like they were trying to remind Sherlock of who they were.

“Hugo.”  Sherlock’s voice cooled noticeably, “Yes, of course I remember you.  Oxford wasn’t  _ that _ long ago.”  Clearly not Sherlock’s best friend then.  Sherlock turned towards the window and scowled out at the night that had settled over Baker Street.  

With Sherlock distracted by his phone call, John seized the opportunity to take a peek at the mess of papers pinned to the wall.  From what John could gather from the haphazard organization, Sherlock appeared to have attempted to construct a timeline of the ATM fee rises.  A picture of each bank that had raised and then subsequently lowered their fees headed a list of all the salient details.  He’d listed when the rise had been implemented, how much of a change it had been, how long it had lasted, and whether or not any of them had offered any sort of explanation or apology for the fee increases.  So far, none of them seemed to have uttered the slightest peep on either front.  

“I don’t know,” Sherlock was saying, his tone nonchalant, “It doesn’t sound like you’ve actually been robbed.”  He paused and listened for a few more moments to the now pleading voice at the other end of the call, “I’m sorry, Hugo, but I’m really quite busy at the moment, so I…”  The voice at the other end dropped into what John assumed the caller thought was an enticing tenor.  Sherlock shifted where he stood, and John could feel his patience with the call wearing thin.  “I know I was able to help Seb, but I really am sorry.  I’ve just got too much on.”  Sherlock ended the call before this Hugo could get another word in and threw his phone down on the coffee table.  He sighed and ran his hands through his already unruly hair, making it stand on end.

“So, Oxford, then?” John asked, picking what had sounded like the least contentious part of that conversation.  “I didn’t peg you for the type.” 

Sherlock caught his eye and smirked, “I wasn’t. I only made it partway through my degree.”

“What were you there for?” John asked, turning away from Sherlock’s diagram and making himself comfortable on the sofa.  “Criminology?”

Sherlock shook his head.  “No.  Chemistry.”  He shrugged.  “Well, mostly.”

John chuckled.  “How do you ‘mostly’ study chemistry?”

Sherlock sat down next to him on the couch with a sigh.  “The same way one usually studies mostly chemistry.  I took mainly chemistry courses, but I audited some anatomy and physiology courses and snuck into more than my fair share of law courses.”

John’s smile transformed into full-on laughter.  “You what?  I don’t think I knew anyone who wanted  _ more _ work out of uni.”

“I didn’t do any of the actual coursework,” Sherlock smirked.  “I sat on the first lecture to get the syllabus, came back for any of the others that sounded interesting, and went to the labs.”

“And I bet you didn’t turn in a speck of work, did you?” John groaned.

“Why would I?” Sherlock asked, scandalized.  “I was hardly taking those courses for a grade.”

Sherlock’s answer only made John laugh harder.  “You know,” he gasped, “I can see you getting all shirty with some professor for a class you’re not even actually registered for asking for your lab reports.”

Sherlock’s smile took on a slightly wistful edge.  “I was a bit obstreperous back then.”

“Like you’re not now?” John asked, shoving Sherlock’s arm.  

Sherlock leaned back into the sofa and closed his eyes then kicked his feet up onto the coffee table.  “I’m worse now,” he admitted, his smirk teasing at his lips again.  “But for different reasons.”  He cracked his right eye to study John.  “You’d know.”

John nodded, “I’m starting to figure it out.”  He kept to himself the observation that time making bad qualities worse was something that could be said for both of them.  He glanced over at Sherlock who had closed his eyes and was once again lounging back against the sofa.  John could practically hear the wheels turning, so he didn’t want to disturb, but he also couldn’t dismiss a nagging that had started at the back of his mind.  “You don’t...I mean, you’re not bringing me with you because you feel sorry for me?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows drew together and his mouth turned down in a scowl.  “Why on earth would I do that?”

“No reason,” John hastened to respond, kicking himself.  Sherlock clearly thought things like sympathy were a waste of time.  “Look, I was just feeling a bit maudlin last night, and, well,” he shrugged, “I don’t even know now.”

Sherlock nodded, “Understandable.  After your divorce, your friends most likely inundated you with the kind of soft-spoken checks on your well being that do little more than grate when the relationship’s ending was as inevitable as yours was.  If all you’ve encountered has been pity or studious avoidance, it’s no wonder everything’s started to take on an unwanted air of coddling.  I may be many things, John, but I can assure you that empathetic is not one of them.”

“I…that’s true.  You’re right,” John conceded.  “So who was that on the phone?” he asked, trying to steer the conversation back into more neutral territory.

Sherlock shrugged, “Friend of a friend.”

“From Oxford?” John prompted.

“From Oxford,” Sherlock confirmed.  

John rolled his eyes.  “What did he want?”

Another shrug.  “To hire me.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” John snapped, exasperated and amused in equal measure.  “Hire you for what?”

“He thinks he’s been robbed,” Sherlock said, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.  “Well, he thinks his employer’s been robbed.”

“Thinks?” John asked, “How can he not know?”

“He’s a City Boy,” Sherlock explained, “Works in ‘developing and implementing online financial products.’”  John’s nose wrinkled in confusion at the job title.  Sherlock’s small smile made a reappearance.  “His words, not mine.”

“What do his words translate into?” John asked.

“He’s in charge of setting service fees for things like ATMs or foreign credit card transactions and organising online bill pay, things like that.”  Sherlock shrugged, “Not really my area.”

“Nor mine,” John agreed.  “So how does he think he’s been robbed?”

“Don’t know,” Sherlock said.  “I was quite dismissive on the phone.”

John nodded.  “I’d noticed.  So, not best friends at school, then.”

Sherlock huffed out a small laugh, “Hardly.  He lived on my floor in the halls.  We never spoke unless he needed something from me.  So I kept him informed about which professors wouldn’t catch him cheating and would still put in a good word for him even after they’d had to spend an entire term in his presence.”

“Didn’t he ever do anything for you?” John asked.  “I mean, that’s how favours generally work.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Sherlock said, his face etched in concentration as he thought back.  “Nothing springs to mind, at any rate.”

“Wanker,” John assessed.

“You’re not wrong,” Sherlock agreed.  He sounded exhausted by the whole thing. 

John smirked, “I knew loads of kids like that in med school.  Daddy’d made a call to get them into the specialisation they wanted, and they never spoke to the rest of us except to demand answers to the homework.”  John studied Sherlock where he was still reclining against the back of the sofa with his eyes closed.  He looked like he was trying to rationalise himself into doing something he didn’t really want to.  “Penny for your thoughts?” John asked.

“The relationship between online banking and robbery,” Sherlock answered from behind his hands.

“Like identity theft?” John asked.  

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed, “Possibly.  Definitely fraud of some sort.”

John pointed over his shoulder, “Is that what all this is?”

“It’s something I’ve been picking at in my spare time,” Sherlock said, his eyes following John’s hand to look up at the collage pinned to his wall.

“If you’re looking into bank robberies anyway, can’t you help your friend?” John pressed.

Sherlock chuckled mirthlessly, “Hugo and I aren’t friends.  As I said, he just needs me for his own ends.  He’s got a problem he can’t solve, and he wants to throw money at it.”  Sherlock thought for a moment, “Although, this could be an opportunity.”

“An opportunity to what?” John asked. “This guy sounds like a total waste of space.”

“Ah yes, but consider this,” Sherlock said, waggling his eyebrows, “Hugo’s got a computer problem and a robbery problem.  I know a computer expert.  I also know a police inspector with a bit of a robbery problem.”

“Not to mention a might-be-connected murder problem,” John added.  “So, d’you really think all this,” he gestured at the wall, “Is connected to that murder?”

“Quite,” Sherlock said, a light of intrigue behind his eyes.  “When are you off work tomorrow?”

“Let me look,” John said as he fished his phone out of his pocket, “I’ll...I’ll probably be free around six.”

Sherlock grinned, clearly already plotting, “I’ll walk your dog if you’ll come with me to Jabez Industries to pay James Wilson a little visit.”

John shook his head, “No need.  Mary did actually come get him on time for a change.  I’ll meet you here at six then?  Do you really think Wilson’s involved in this?”

Sherlock nodded, “Six.  And, yes, I do think he’s involved.  Perhaps unwittingly, but he’s definitely caught up in whatever’s going on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I'm sorry this is a couple of days late, but here it is. A thousand thanks to those of you who have left kind words and kudos. It absolutely makes my day to see you enjoying this story.


	8. Three Steps Forward, Two Steps Back

John spent his entire shift with one eye on the clock.  Around one when they caught a bit of a lull, his supervisor practically shoved him out the door with orders to go get some lunch and not to return until he’d gotten  himself refocussed.  John sat in the canteen and poked listlessly at a tragically overcooked bit of chicken in a weird brown sauce and vegetables that the placard claimed had been roasted but tasted more like they’d been boiled to within an inch of disintegration.  He twirled his phone idly between his fingers as he watched the hospital staff and visitors come and go.  He wondered what Sherlock would say about each of them if he could have a look at their clothes or their phones; what secrets they would reveal without him even having to ask.  John sat in the canteen and let himself wonder what Sherlock was up to until his pager went off, calling him back to A&E.  Unfortunately, his concentration fared no better after he returned from lunch, and by the time his shift was over, he practically fled for the door.

At home, John was halfway through a shower before he realized he had no idea what he and Sherlock would be doing when they went to this Jabez Design place.  He dithered in front of his wardrobe for nearly ten minutes before he finally muttered, “It’s not a fucking date, John,” and snatched up a pair of grey trousers and a plaid button down.  

John rang Sherlock’s bell just before six, quietly relieved his sartorial crisis hadn’t actually translated into him being late.  Even though Sherlock had yet to answer his own bell, when he failed to answer this time, John began to quietly panic.  He dug his phone out of his pocket to see if Sherlock had texted to change their plans, but he stopped, afraid of what Sherlock would be able to deduce if he were lurking upstairs watching John stew down on the pavement.  He’d just made up his mind to go home and text Sherlock from there when a familiar voice came from behind him:

“John, I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”

John spun around to see Sherlock stepping out of a sleek black Jaguar.  He turned back towards the car and said, “It’s none of your concern.  I am a fully-functioning adult, after all.”  A murmur from the plush interior in response caused Sherlock to bristle further, “Doctor does not equal dealer.  You of all people should be clever enough to figure that out.”  Sherlock stepped back and slammed the car door before whomever he’d been riding with could reply.  He whirled back to John, “Are you ready?”

“I...yeah,” John stammered, momentarily thrown by Sherlock’s sudden mood swing.  “Everything okay?”

Sherlock shrugged and threw up a hand for cab, “As much as it ever can be.”  

“I thought you’d changed your mind,” John blurted without thinking then blushed as his words caught up with his brain.  No need to come over like a lovesick puppy there, Watson.

“No no,” Sherlock reassured him with a smile. “I was just out checking on a couple of things and got a bit lost on the time.”  He motioned towards the open car door as he spoke, “Coming?”

John shook his head at Sherlock’s cavalier lack of concern over turning up late, but he did follow Sherlock’s gesture into the waiting cab.

“So where are we off to?” John asked once they were moving.

Sherlock glanced back from where he’d been looking out the window, “Wilson’s office.  Well, the office he owns.  I don’t think we’re going to get anything more out of the RHL office, at least for now.”

“Why not?” John asked, “I mean, I know that guy we talked to last time was a bit dismissive, but what if we tried talking to someone else?”

“Oh, brilliant, John, I hadn’t even thought of that,” Sherlock snapped.  “What ever would I do without you?”

“Alright, alright, keep your hair on.”  John shook his head,.“I have been at work all day, not chasing around after you, so I’m a bit behind.”  Sherlock didn’t feel the need to dignify John’s snappish attitude with a response, so they lapsed into silence as the city’s evening rush crept past their windows.  

“Where’s Wilson’s office, anyway?” John asked after nearly five minutes of nothing more than Sherlock’s quiet breathing and the occasional swipe of his thumb as he read something on his phone.

“About thirty minutes away from RHL,” Sherlock answered.  

“That’s a bit far,” John replied with a frown.  “Why do you want to go to Jabez anyway?  I thought all of this was going on with RHL.”

Sherlock shrugged.  “Have a bit of a look round.  See what there is to see.  I spoke to James earlier today, so we should have access to his entire office.”

“To what end?” John asked.  Sherlock’s tone practically shouted that they were going to be doing more than just having a ‘bit of a look round.’

“You’ll see when we get there,” Sherlock hedged.  “I don’t want to bias your opinion.”

“Oh, very nice, thank you,” John muttered with a wry laugh.  

“Just here,” Sherlock directed the cabbie as he pulled out his wallet to pay.  

John stepped out in front of an older building that some enterprising architect had renovated  with an incongruously modern facade.  Sherlock joined him on the pavement, smiling as he pulled his gloves back on, “Ready?”

John shrugged, “Lead on, then.”

Sherlock nodded and walked confidently up to the glass and steel door with Jabez Design stencilled on in a stylishly clean font.  Inside, a pair of stark, minimalist desks continued the sleekly modern aesthetic.  One of the desks stood empty, but a man who didn’t look to John much older than twenty sat at the other one drawing on a tablet he had hooked up to a top-of-the-line desktop computer.  At their approach, he set down his stylus and smiled up at them, “Welcome to Jabez Design.  How can I help?”

Sherlock fixed what John realized was his ‘company’ smile firmly in place and stepped forward, “You must be William Morris.  James Wilson’s assistant?”

“I, ah, well, it says partner on my business cards,” William stammered, pointing to the small card stand on the edge of his desk and blushing to the roots of his hair.

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, “Doesn’t matter.  What does matter is your employer’s whereabouts two days ago.”

William blinked at them, “He was cleaning out his desk at RHL in the morning, and he was here all afternoon.  We were back in the farm working on some hardware upgrades and some software patching.  Why?  Has something happened?”

Sherlock shrugged, clearly unwilling to divulge all of the details. “Nothing that can’t be sorted out rather quickly.”  He stepped over to the empty desk and sat himself down and started looking around the tidy surface and scanning the few post-it reminders stuck to the edge of the screen, “Is this his desk?”

William nodded, “Um, yeah.”  He pointed to the screen, “It’s password protected, though, and I don’t know his password.”

Sherlock looked over the desk one more time, drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk, then set them gently on the keyboard.  He typed slowly but confidently into the lock screen, and once he hit enter, they all heard the telltale chime of a successful login.

“How’d…how’d you figure that out?” William asked as the desktop loaded.

“Not difficult,” Sherlock dismissed.  “Now, what had he been working on before RHL hired him?”  

“Um, some three-dimensional transportable vault models for a security company,” William supplied.  “But…”

Sherlock glared up at William from the corner of his eye, “But what?”

“But that was ages ago.  Before he got hired by RHL,” William finished.  “He wasn’t even halfway finished when this freelance offer came along, so he transferred the rest of the project to me and went off to do their work.”

“Is this them?” Sherlock asked, highlighting a series of files in a folder labelled Garda Vaults.

“Uh, yeah, they should be,” William answered shortly.

“You’re designing bank vaults?” Sherlock murmured to himself as he started opening files for the Garda project.

William blinked at the plan that Sherlock had open on the screen, “Oh, well, erm, that one there?”  He pointed to the scale scribbled in the margin, “That one’s a transportable vault.  Like you’d get in armoured cars.  We’re doing up a whole range of transportable and permanent installation vaults for them.”

Sherlock leaned back in Wilson’s chair and fixed William with a penetrating stare, “Explain something to me, then.  Why, if he handed this project over to you, would James Wilson have your revisions on his computer if you don’t know his password?”

“I...the accounts sync.” he stammered defensively.

Sherlock raised one eyebrow, “Do they now?”  John smothered a laugh at Sherlock’s innocently incredulous tone.  

“Yes,” William snapped, “They do.  Now, did you actually need something?”

Sherlock stood, “As a matter of fact I do.  If you could show us your servers?  James has been going on about how they’re his pride and joy.  I just wanted to see for myself.”

“Well,” William dragged the word out, clearly reluctant.  “We’ve got some modifications on some of them that are a little proprietary.  I’m not sure how James’d feel if I showed them to just anyone.”

“Oh, no,” Sherlock gasped, all perfectly feigned astonishment, “I’ve no interest in poaching your intellectual property.  My friend here, John,” he pointed to John, “He’s trying to get into the rendering game down here.  His work in Manchester’s dried up, you see.  James had offered the last time we spoke, or I’d never dream of imposing.”

“Still,” William hedged with a glance between Sherlock and John, “I’m just not sure.  I don’t want to get in trouble or anything.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at William’s obvious hesitation, “You do realise you could just call James and ask him.”

William fixed John with an appraising stare then he shrugged, “I probably should.”  He shot them an abashed look as he pulled out his phone and dialled, “Sorry, it’s just...I don’t want to lose this job.”

“Of course,” John reassured him.  

Sherlock turned back to the huge studio display computer and trailed his fingers idly around the edges of the monitor, “Has this got the CPU built in?”  William, who had been speaking quietly into his phone, nodded distractedly over his shoulder at him.  Sherlock dipped his head in acknowledgement, then continued his slow walk around the computer.  John watched Sherlock’s fingers follow his eyes in a mesmerizing trace of the computer’s sinuous curves.  He glanced up and caught John’s eye and dropped him a conspiratorial wink.   

William slapped his phone down onto the desk, and John jumped, his face heating at his lack of attention.  “Sorry.”  William smiled sheepishly in the face of John’s alarm.  “James said it was fine.  Something about a friend in need.”  He gestured back towards the rear of the office, “Let’s go take a look, shall we?”  

John nodded and fell in step behind William and together they made their way back towards the servers.  “Um, thanks for this,” he mumbled, unsure how far Sherlock would ultimately expect him to carry this charade.

“No trouble,” William assured him, “I mean, a friend of James is a friend of mine, right?”  

John nodded again.  “Sure.”

“So,” he started, “What’s your poison for drawing programs?”

“Oh, well, you know how it is,” John shrugged.  He glared back at Sherlock who had wandered over to inspect William’s computer and seemed blissfully unconcerned with John’s current predicament.  “Different programs depending on the job, isn’t it?”

“Definitely,” William agreed with a smile.  John sagged in relief.  “Just through here.”  He stepped past John and started leading the way towards the end of a narrow hallway towards a glass door labelled  _ Servers _ .  When John hesitated, looking back to see if Sherlock would follow, William turned back also.  “He can come too, I suppose.  Probably won’t understand half of it like you would, but he’s welcome.”

Sherlock whipped around from where he was still examining William’s computer and smiled disingenuously.  “You’re too kind.”  

John rolled his eyes and returned and grabbed Sherlock by the elbow and tried to inject an enthusiasm he wasn’t sure he felt into his tone.  “Come take a look with me.”  He and Sherlock trailed after William out of the front office and through into what John had to assume was the rendering farm.  A couple of steps inside, John started shivering.  “Bit cold back here, isn’t it?” he mumbled to himself.

“Not if we want the servers to keep running,” William laughed.  “But, you’d know, of course.”

“Of course,” John agreed halfheartedly.  “I spend more time with the more, erm, front of house end of things, though, so it’s easy to forget.”

“Oh, not me, mate,” William shuddered.  He patted the side of a huge, hulking mainframe, “Sitting in the aisles between these things and blowing on my hands to keep feeling in my fingers while I wait on an install.  It’s godawful, but it’s our world.”

John smiled thinly and hummed noncommittally as he wondered just what he would do if the conversation started to tend into territory that would actually demand some sort of substantive input on his part.  “So, um,” he tried, “How long have you been here?”

William shrugged and tapped distractedly at a couple of keys, bringing up the system performance metrics for the past day, “A while.  Couple years.”  He glanced over at John, “Feels like I’m still trying to break in; like no one takes me seriously yet.”

John nodded, “Sometimes it feels like it’ll never happen.”

“Definitely,” William agreed.  “I just wish it would though, you know?  I don’t want to turn around and find almost half my life’s gone.”  He finished whatever he’d been doing and turned back to John, “So, what questions can I answer for you about our setup?”

John stifled a groan as he wracked his brain for anything that would make him sound like he had an ounce of technological savvy.  “Well, I mainly wanted to know how long your setup needs to take something to a finished product?”

“Depends, really,” William answered, slanting John a slightly disbelieving look.  “I mean, you’ve got to think of dimensions, file size, detailing, complexity--”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock cut in, “Lots to consider.”  He tore his gaze away from the monitor he’d been watching to look at John, “Did you see what you needed?”

John blinked helplessly at Sherlock, “I, um, yes?”

“Excellent,” he smiled at John before turning back to William, “Thank you so much for your time.  We’ll just see ourselves out, shall we?”  With that, he grabbed John’s elbow and started ushering him towards the front door.

“Thanks for stopping by,” William called after them.  John turned back to wave, but Sherlock just continued to prod him forward.

Out on the street, John wrested his arm away from Sherlock’s grip.  “Would you let go of me?” Once he’d freed himself, he fixed Sherlock with his steeliest scowl. “What the hell was that all about?”

“Reconnaissance, John,” Sherlock answered, sounding supremely unconcerned.  He glanced around at the early evening foot traffic passing around them before he spoke again, “Would you mind too much if we walked?”

John relented immediately and shook his head. “Not at all.  Work was a lot of hurry up and wait today, so it’d be nice to stretch my legs a bit.”

Sherlock smiled down at his shoes as they turned up the road and started walking, “I’d imagine it’d be difficult to make yourself do it on your own.  Especially now that Browning’s gone back home.”

“Of course,” John chuckled wryly, knowing immediately that Sherlock meant his nightly walks through the park.  “I can’t hide anything from you, can I?”

Sherlock caught John out of the corner of his eye, “Doubtful,” he replied with a small smile.

“Really, though,” John pressed, “What on earth were we doing back there?  I felt such a git pretending to be a...whatever it was.”

“Graphic designer,” Sherlock supplied.  “Relax, you did fine.  I mainly needed a distraction and you did that perfectly.”

John rolled his eyes, “How reassuring.”

“Well, in this instance all you had to do was keep William focussed on you, so it didn’t particularly matter that you’re one of the worst liars I’ve ever met,” Sherlock answered cheerfully.

“Oh, ta very much for that,” John snapped through his laughter, bumping his shoulder into Sherlock’s arm.  “What were you doing, though?  Something for those robberies?”

“Possibly,” Sherlock hedged.  “I’m not entirely convinced RHL is solely involved in the graphic design industry, and I’m going to try to prove it.”

“Is this for that Lestrade bloke?” John asked.  Sherlock nodded, encouraging John to continue.  “So how do you plan to plan on proving RHL’s up to something suspicious?  That monster at their office wouldn’t even let you in the door.”

Sherlock’s answering grin was practically devilish.  “Oh, John.  There’s always more than one door.”  He reached into the pocket of his pants and when he opened his hand, a tiny USB plugin lay in his palm.

“What is that?” John asked, turning the tiny device over where it lay in Sherlock’s hand.  “Is it a memory stick?”

Sherlock shook his head as he pocketed the gadget again.  “It’s a keylogger.”

“A keylogger?” John repeated, completely at a loss.  “What does a keylogger even do?”

“Exactly what its name implies,” Sherlock responded with a shrug.  “Keeps track of the keystrokes anyone enters into a computer.”

“Why?” John asked, baffled.  “Also, that sounds more than a bit illegal.”

Sherlock’s grin was positively mischievous when he answered, “Technically?  They’re perfectly legal.  In reality?  They’re used for quite a few underhanded reasons, so they fall into a bit of a moral grey area.”

“Like you’re doing now?  Is this a bit of that grey area?” John asked.

“It’s a matter of motive, John,” Sherlock dismissed with a wave of his hand.  “I’m trying to track down a criminal.  Not skim the password for some idiot’s SkyTV account.”

John rolled his eyes and muttered, “Well, when you put it that way.”  They lapsed into a silence that lasted nearly a whole block before John spoke again.  “How do you know William won’t find it?”

“Size,” Sherlock answered simply.  “Physically it’s quite small, and in terms of function, the drain on the computer’s performance is so small as to be virtually undetectable.”

“Yes, but these are people who work with computers for a living,” John persisted.  “I would imagine they’re a bit more aware of their systems than I would be.  Or even you, for that matter.”

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock said.  “Nothing’s stored on the host computer.  It’ll all come to my email, and I’ll be able to sort through the data and move forward from there.  Perfectly safe.”

“Do those things really pick up everything someone types?” John asked, nodding towards where Sherlock had pocketed the extra devices.

“Everything,” Sherlock confirmed with a conspiratorial wink.  “Every line of code you type, every web address you enter, even the login for William’s favourite hidden camera pornography website.”

John grimaced.  “That’s disgusting.  How would you even know about the porn?  Pattern of his tie?”

Sherlock’s eyes sparked with mischief as he laughed, “Don’t be ridiculous, John.  He wasn’t even wearing a tie.  No, no, it was much simpler that.”  He caught John’s eye, inviting him to share the punch line.  “He’d left his browser open.”

John choked on a laugh.  “Jesus!  At work?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “Studies suggest as many as 30 percent of employees have viewed sexually explicit material at work at least once.  Why should James Wilson’s evasive employee be any different?”

John wrinkled his nose. “I suppose,” he conceded.  “But still.  At  _ work _ .”  

Sherlock’s low chuckle rumbled pleasantly in the air between them.  “It takes all sorts, John.”

“You’re right,” John agreed.  “Seriously though, Sherlock, what if they find the keylogger?  Do you have a plan?”

“Of course,” Sherlock answered with a dismissive wave of his hand.  “I plan to deny everything.”

“How’s that going to go, then?” John asked through a huff of laughter.  “You going to tell them Big Brother put it there?”

Sherlock shook his head.  “No.  He’s not really one for legwork.” 

“No, I suppose a face in a telescreen wouldn’t be,” John agreed. 

Sherlock chuckled and said, “Of course.  Why do it yourself when you could just send your thought police to do it for you?”

“Thought police aren’t real,” John replied, smiling fondly.

“You’d be surprised,” Sherlock muttered darkly.

“But, Sherlock,” John pressed, trying to circle back to his original concern.  “What are you going to say if either James or William finds one of them?”

Sherlock tapped his chin in a parody of thoughtful consideration, “I suppose it wouldn’t be believable to say that James put it there to monitor ‘time theft’ would it?”

“Could be,” John shrugged.  “Although, time theft does sound a bit like something a corporate drone would say rather than a smaller outfit like this.”

“Even though smaller organizations have more of a need to stay on top of worker efficiency,” Sherlock replied.

“Well, yeah,” John conceded, “But they usually don’t sound like such prats when they say it.”

“Fine then,” Sherlock smirked.  “What would you suggest I say if the worst should occur?”

John shrugged.  “Maybe deflect from the spying by focussing on the weird pornography during work?”

“You’re suggesting bringing up an employee’s rather invasive pornography preference is better than simply being honest?” Sherlock asked, quirking an eyebrow in John’s direction.

“Maybe?” John hedged.  “I don’t know.  I’ve never had to defend myself from spying on anyone.”

“Then clearly you’ve been leading a sheltered life, John Watson,” Sherlock responded sagely.  

“Clearly,” John retorted, rolling his eyes.  “At any rate, as far as I can see, you’ve really got a few choices.”  He started ticking off options on his fingers as they walked.  “One, you go with the God’s honest truth.  That this has something to do with a possible link between James’s job at RHL and these bank robberies.”  Sherlock rolled his eyes at John’s pedantry.  “Two, you’re working for MI-6 testing some new high-tech spy equipment.”

“John,” Sherlock groaned, “Those kinds of things only exist in labs that neither you nor I will ever get access to.”

“Okay, okay,” John conceded.  “There’s a third option, if you want to hear it?”  Sherlock nodded.  “Three, you tell them that you’ve been hired to squash on-the-job wanking.”    

Sherlock’s warm laughter buoyed them around the last corner and onto Baker Street, and John let himself follow Sherlock towards his flat rather than simply crossing over to his own side of the street and going home.  He trailed after Sherlock, unwilling to let their evening of shared camaraderie end quite yet, until they found themselves in front of 221.

“I...erm...I had a good time this afternoon,” John spoke softly, letting his mask drop.  He glanced up from where he’d been staring at his shoes and caught Sherlock’s gaze.  Sherlock’s eyes widened and John thrilled at his sudden, sharp intake of breath.

Sherlock flushed and nodded, “Good.  That’s, um, that’s good.”  He blushed harder as he stumbled over his words, and finally had to look away as he dug for his keys in his pocket.

John reached out and grabbed the cuff of Sherlock’s coat between his thumb and index finger, halting Sherlock’s fumbling.  “Hey,” he murmured.  “There’s no rush.  It’s just us.”

Sherlock stared at the small movement of John’s thumb as John gently stroked the wool of his coat.  “I’m…” Sherlock directed his words towards John’s fingers.  “I’m not…”  He finally looked up and met John’s eye, and the regret in his voice was almost tangible.  “I’m sorry, John, but I think you’ll find I’m married to my work.”  He gently extricated himself from John’s grasp and retreated up the steps to his flat where he disappeared behind the door.  He shut the door with a soft click, and John found himself standing alone on the pavement in the rapidly gathering darkness.

John stared at the blank, black door of 221, completely at a loss as to what had just happened.  He jammed the hand he’d used to reach out for Sherlock into his pocket to hide the tremor he could feel rattling up his arm and executed a precise about face to head for home.  As he walked, he told himself it was fine.  That he hadn’t particularly wanted his tall, peculiar, fascinating neighbour to develop any sort of interest in him.  “Stupid,” he muttered to himself, pulling out his keys and jamming them into the lock of his front door.  Inside, he hustled up the stairs and into his flat where he slammed the door shut and collapsed against the wood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must apologize for the wait for this new chapter. I broke my foot back in March, but because I was so sure it was only a sprain, I walked around on it for a month. So I was exhausted all the time because I was walking on the injury, and now I'm exhausted all the time because I'm lugging a walking boot around. AND (as if all this wasn't enough), my city was hit by enough rain to beat the 500-year flood mark by two inches. Needless to say, the struggle has been rather real over here. 
> 
> I am committed to finishing this, and every single one of you who have read and left kudos and comments have lifted me up and made my heart a little brighter. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.


	9. Follow the Cash

For the next two weeks, John studiously tried to avoid any thoughts of 221B Baker Street and its peculiar occupant by focussing on trying to build new routines.  He pulled extra shifts, stayed late to make sure all of his paperwork was finished, and when he got home, he started going through all the boxes he’d simply labelled  _ later _ and separating them into  _ to bin _ and  _ to donate _ piles.  He had even been on his way to tell his supervising physician he would be willing to take one of the students the next time they came in, but stopped short when he saw Mike in Dr. Burleson’s office discussing placements.  John squared his shoulders and continued walking straight past Burleson’s office, praying Mike didn’t see him.

“John?  John!” Mike’s voice followed him down the corridor.  He sighed.  No such luck on escaping unseen, then.

“Mike, yeah, hey,” John answered, turning back and silently cringing at his own lack of enthusiasm.  He stopped and waited to let Mike catch up to him.  “How’ve you been?”

“Oh you know, making do and getting by.”  Mike smiled and shrugged as he drew even with John.  John simply nodded and started walking again.  Mike fell in step with him, blithely ignoring his cool reception.  “I haven’t seen you or Sherlock around much.  Have you been helping him with one of his cases?  That tattoo thing?”

John blushed and stammered, “No, I’ve...no.  I’ve been busy here.”

“That’s a shame,” Mike replied shaking his head.  “I thought you two were getting on rather well.”

“I don’t think so,” John disagreed.  “I mean, he’s so abrasive and invasive.  This whole sociopath thing is just a bit much sometimes, you know?  I’m better off not trailing along after some sort of madman.” 

Mike chuckled good naturedly as he replied.  “I don’t think he’s actually a sociopath, you know.  He acts the way he does to protect himself, I think.”  John opened his mouth to retort, but Mike continued before he could get a word out.  “Just hear me out.  I know he’s odd, but Christ, who wouldn’t be...set so far apart with a brain like his?”  

John’s only response was a skeptical eyebrow raise.

“All I’m saying is he might seem rude, but he does treat people all the same.  It’s bizarre, but it’s equal.”

“All right, Mike, no need to lay it on  _ that _ thick,” John protested.  “He’s different, I’ll not argue with that.  But I’ve finally got myself back on track after the divorce, and I don’t want to get mixed up with someone so self-centered now that I’m finally doing better on my own.”

“I understand,” Mike answered as they came to a stop at the lifts.  He pushed the call button then turned and offered John one of his benign smiles.  “No one’s saying you have to move in with him.”  He shrugged.  “But, you did seem more your old self when you were with him a couple of weeks ago.”  The lift dinged, and Mike stepped in.  “Maybe give him a chance, mate.”

The doors slid closed between them, and John stood staring at the brushed steel for a moment before he shook himself then turned and started walking again.  “Give him a chance my arse,” he muttered as he resumed his original course to radiology.  

In the end, the remainder of John’s day didn’t give him a chance for much thinking about Sherlock.  Three ambulances pulled in just as John returned from radiology.  Apparently an American tourist had overestimated his ability to adjust to driving on the other side of the road and turned straight into oncoming traffic and slammed into an Audi hatchback with an entire family in it.  John dropped his earlier irritation with Mike as he hurried to scrub into the surgery for one of the passengers.  What had initially seemed like a set of straightforward, if deep, chest lacerations had rapidly devolved into a full on trauma surgery after a pulmonary hemorrhage halfway through the operation.

Three hours and a successful operation in spite of a major blowup with the on-call vascular surgeon later, John finally clocked out and made his way home where he collapsed into his chair with his book and two very generous fingers of whiskey.  He closed his eyes and savoured the burn from his drink as the first sip hit the back of his throat.  Another swallow, and his fingers had just made contact with his book when the doorbell went.  “Oh, what now?” John sighed as he levered himself to standing and went to answer the door.  

“Doctor Watson, I presume?”  asked the poshest man John had ever seen in his life.

“Do I know you?” John demanded in lieu of a more welcoming greeting as he side-stepped a bit further behind his door.

The gentleman shook his head dismissively.  “Not at all.”  He looked John up and down before he spoke again, “But I do believe you are acquainted with Sherlock Holmes?”  

John squared up to his visitor and snapped, “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

Instead of answering, he reached into the breast pocket of his suit and pulled out a slim, leather bound notebook and flipped it open to the page he’d bookmarked.  He raised his eyebrows as he read and spoke at the same time, “It appears you’ve quite recently settled a rather impressive account with a rather...disreputable...lender.”  His eyes flicked up from the page to meet John’s.  “Would you care to elaborate on how you were able to make that happen?”

John’s hand clenched around the door handle until he felt his pulse hammering in his palm.  “I beg your pardon?” He grit out between clenched teeth.

“One merely wonders,” his visitor demurred insincerely, closing the notebook and slipping it back into his jacket.  He glanced up and down the practically deserted street before he spoke again, “Maybe you should invite me up so we don’t have to have this conversation in front of prying eyes.”

John forced himself to take a breath and unwrap his fingers from around the doorknob, “I’m not sure that’s wise, do you?"

The man levelled John with a reproachful stare.  “If one wishes to avoid the seemingly omniscient attentions of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet.”

John rolled his eyes.  Put it like that and it almost made sense.  He grudgingly stepped aside from the door and swung it open to admit his guest.  “Fine, come in then, I suppose.”

“Thank you, Dr. Watson,” he replied, breezing past John and into the foyer.  “Just upstairs, is it?” He asked as he started ascending the stairs before John could answer.

“Um, yeah, it’s just...yeah,” John said to the empty foyer.  He closed and relocked the street door before turning to make his own way upstairs.  

In his flat, John’s visitor had settled into his chair and was regarding the blurb on the back of his novel with a single quirked eyebrow.  “Make yourself at home, please,” John muttered as he closed the sitting room door.  The gentleman went back to reading the back of John’s book, so John perched himself on the far corner of the sofa and spread his hands against his thighs.  “So, why are you here, Mr…?”

“I’m simply concerned,” he replied, returning his attention to John.

“Concerned?” John repeated.

“Mmm,” he agreed.  “I’ve known Sherlock Holmes for quite some time, so that gives me the right, wouldn’t you think?”

“No,” John snapped.  “I wouldn’t.  Just who do you think you are, anyway?”

The man smiled thinly.  “An interested party.”  

He regarded John evenly for a few moments; the tick of the mantel clock the only noise in the quiet sitting room.  “Tell me, Dr. Watson, do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?”

“Do I plan to…what?” John asked, baffled.  “I barely know him, so I’m not sure what association you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play coy, it doesn’t suit you,” his visitor snapped.  He sighed then continued in a much more controlled tone.  “I’m merely concerned about the connection between you.”

John stiffened in his seat and crossed his arms.  “I’m not telling you a damn thing until you explain exactly who you are and why you’ve come into my home making all of these outrageous insinuations.”

The gentleman took out his notebook and quirked an eyebrow in a parody of amusement as he opened it again. Once he’d found his place, he spoke.  “When it comes to my attention that someone with ready access to drugs is living down the road from a known user and that he has recently settled a rather longstanding debt, I think I have reason to be.”  He looked up and met John’s gaze steadily.  “Wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Watson?”

John stood up and stalked to the door and yanked it open.  “I don’t know who you think you are, or what you think you know about me, but I’m pretty sure we’re done here.”

John’s mystery guest stood and straightened his waistcoat and spared his notebook a final glance before he slipped it back into the breast pocket of his jacket.  “Perhaps,” he spoke as he buttoned his jacket and collected his umbrella.  John continued to scowl from his spot by the sitting room door.  “Perhaps it would be best if you steer clear of Sherlock Holmes.  I would hate for him to fall into unnecessary temptation.”

“We’re done.”  John snapped.  “Do not attempt to contact me again, unless you’d very much like for me to summon the police for harassment.”

“Oh, Dr. Watson,” he laughed.  He stopped in John’s personal space as he made to exit.  “You are very much the brave little bulldog.”  A last condescending smirk and he finally took his leave.

“Pretentious git,” John muttered, slamming the door closed behind him.  He frowned at his now empty flat.  “Who is he to try to tell me what to do?”  

On impulse, John tugged his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through his contacts to the number he’d been trying to ignore for the past two weeks.  He pulled up a new text window and typed out a quick message.

_ Do you owe some posh bloke in an expensive suit money? _

He pushed send and set his phone down on the coffee table, not expecting a reply, so he was shocked when his phone pinged almost as soon as he’d let it go.

_ I don’t think so.  Why?  SH _

John frowned down at the screen as he pecked out his reply.

_ Someone claiming to know you was over here demanding to know how I knew you. _

The ellipses indicating Sherlock’s typing popped up almost immediately, and his reply came in only a few seconds later. 

_ John, I’d appreciate it if you came over and explained to me just what happened.  SH _

“Why?” John muttered to himself, but started typing anyway.

_ I guess so.  Give me a tick and I’ll be over. _

John pocketed his phone and grabbed his keys.  He decided to forego his coat since he was only going across the street, but the burst of cool air when he opened his front door prompted him to hurry across the street to 221.

Either Sherlock had told Mrs. Hudson he was coming over, or Sherlock had, for once, bestirred himself to make sure John didn’t have to loiter on the stoop because one of them had thought to put the door on the latch so John could just let himself in.  

Up the stairs, and John stopped short just inside the sitting room door.  Even though it was long dark, Sherlock hadn’t turned on any of the lamps scattered around the room or the light in the kitchen.  Instead, the soft glow of the fire and the streetlamps streaming in through the opened curtains provided the only illumination in the entire flat.  Sherlock was collapsed on the sofa staring blankly at the ceiling.  He’d abandoned the tailored, polished suits John had seen him wearing every other time they’d met in favour of a pair of pyjama pants and a shirt that looked at least a two sizes too large.  

John stood and stared before finding his voice.  “Sherlock?  Are you alright?”

Pale eyes flicked up to find John’s face.  When he spoke, his voice came out in a disused rasp.  “Yes.  Fine.”  He dragged himself up until he was sitting sideways on the cushions and coughed to clear his throat.  “Who came to see you?”

John shed his coat as he stepped fully into the room and came to perch on the edge of the sofa next to Sherlock’s long, spindly feet.  “Dunno,” he said with a shrug.  “Some posh git in a suit.  Seemed like he knew you, though.”

Sherlock’s toes flexed gently against John’s leg as he thought.  He finally opened his mouth to ask, “Fat?  Ginger?”

“Ginger, yeah,” John agreed.  “I wouldn’t necessarily call him fat, though.”

“I would,” Sherlock muttered.  He jabbed his toes into John’s thigh.  “Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

“No,” John let his confusion draw the word out.  He poked the top of one of Sherlock’s feet.  “He did seem to think I was using my position as a doctor to sell you drugs, though.  Anything you want to tell me about that?”

Sherlock flung himself back onto the sofa with a huff of annoyance.  “Of course.”  He cracked an eye open and regarded John warily.  “He’s paranoid, you know.  Seems to think I’m always out scouting for another source.”

“Another source?” John repeated.  “Do you...I mean...do I...does this guy have some kind of hold over you?  I can get you in touch with our drugs counselor at the hospital.  She’s got all sorts of contacts at different rehab facilities and--”

This time, Sherlock jammed his toes into John’s ribs to halt the flow of his words.  “I am not an addict.  Use your eyes, please, Doctor.”

John pushed Sherlock’s foot away.  “Lots of functional addicts out there.  Doesn’t mean they’re not addicts, though.”  He sighed.  “I’m here to help, you know.  All you have to do is ask.”

“I do not need any  _ help _ ,” Sherlock muttered petulantly.

“Fine, fine,” John conceded, even as he snuck one more look at the gentle curve of Sherlock’s elbows where they bent around his drawn up legs.  He patted the top of Sherlock’s bare foot by way of an apology.  “He was very strange and I just...I didn’t want to leave you alone in a difficult situation by not offering you the help I’ve got.”

“You needn’t fret, Doctor,” Sherlock snapped.  He pulled up his sleeve, revealing the inside of one pale forearm with its web of blue veins snaking beneath the skin.  “I am clean.”  He rolled his sleeve back down and fixed John with a dark scowl, daring him to ask about the drugs again.

John caved first, dropping his eyes from Sherlock’s perceptive gaze down to where his hands lay twisted together in his lap.  He pressed his lips together to keep his comment about Sherlock only showing him his left arm where it belonged: inside his mouth.  After a few moments more of the same, intensely awkward silence, Sherlock let loose a put-upon sigh and flopped back down on the sofa.  

When he finally summoned the nerve to look up again, Sherlock had stopped staring at him in favour of rolling over to peck at the half dozen browser tabs he had open on his laptop.  John let his gaze wander around the sitting room, reexamining the chaos that seemed to crowd every available surface.  He sighed and leaned his head back against the wall, wondering how one made a graceful exit from what had become an extremely awkward conversation.  He looked up, and noticed Sherlock’s collection of notes on the bank fee hikes still hung above the couch.

“Are you still working on that bank thing?” John asked, nodding up at the collection of photos and notes and praying Sherlock didn’t call him out on the abrupt change of topic.

Sherlock let him escape with a pointed look and a brief nod.  “For now.”

“For your friend?  What was his name?  Herbert?” John pressed.

“Hugo,” Sherlock corrected flatly.

“Sure, Hugo,” John agreed with a shrug.  “Wasn’t he your friend who worked in the electronic payment division of Tellson’s?”

“He was,” Sherlock replied, sounding mildly impressed that John had remembered.  “But, no, not for him.  Lestrade has taken it into his head that there’s a link between Duncan Ross’s murder and some missing money from Shad Sanderson.”

“How?” John asked.

“The funds had a trace on them.  They seemed to have originated with a rather disreputable business man in America, and Homeland Security wanted to follow the trail to its source.”

John screwed his face up in thought.  “How is that even possible?  I mean, it’s not as simple as tracking marked bills since it’s all just digital data, right?”

“Mmm...not quite,” Sherlock disagreed.  “Consider that any digital representation of money is, ultimately, actual money.  It may seem like so many ones and zeroes when it appears via an electronic funds transfer, but that EFT means nothing if there’s not actual cash at the end to back it up.”

“Right,” John nodded.  “So, they put a trace on the actual cash, then?”

“On the digital representation of the actual cash, yes.”  Sherlock corrected.  “We’ve come a long way from the days of stamped bullion and pound notes with a red cross on.  For someone who knows what they’re doing, it’s quite simple to add in a bit of code to mark money coming out of a specific account so that someone could trace its path out in the wider world.”

“A red cross that only a coder could see?”

Sherlock nodded.  “Precisely.”  

“Okay, I get that,” John said, “But how does an American’s money connect to a dead man in a bank lobby?”

Sherlock’s eyes brightened with the intrigue of the thing.  “Duncan Ross had money from the flagged account in his account.”

“So?” John pressed.

“So,” Sherlock explained, building up to his point, “Where it comes from is what makes it interesting.  Duncan Ross ended up with five pounds of this tagged money in his account.”

“So?” John repeated.

“It’s...it’s the exact difference in the old ATM fee rate for Shad Sanderson and their new, higher fees,” Sherlock cried, looking expectantly at John for matching enthusiasm.

“Did...he do work for Shad Sanderson setting ATM rates?” John hazarded.

“Ugh, no, John,” Sherlock huffed, throwing himself back on the couch.  “He did not.”  

Barely a moment later, though, Sherlock popped back up and fixed John with his appraising stare again.  “He did, however, know William Morris  _ and _ he worked with James at RHL.”

“James Wilson and William Morris?  The blokes who own Jabez?”  John asked.

“James owns.  William’s merely an assistant.”  Sherlock corrected.

“His card said partner,” John muttered in a burst of vindictive remembrance.

“Whatever,” Sherlock dismissed.  “What does matter, is that he’s a link between the banks with missing money and James Williams and RHL.”

Sherlock wiggled his toes as he thought, then stabbed them into John’s thigh as a thought occurred to him.  “Are you working tomorrow?”

“No,” John said, “But I’m not just free to go haring off after you.”

“Of course you are,” Sherlock retorted.  “You and your ex had it out when you were keeping her dog.  You’ve been doing nothing but going to work and coming straight home for two weeks, so you need some excitement.”

John felt his resolve weakening, even as he rolled his eyes in frustration.  “Go with you to do what?” he asked.

“Go with me back to RHL to see a man about a computer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, for your kudos and lovely comments. I'm thinking two, possibly three more chapters to wind this bad boy up.


	10. Second Time's the Charm

Sherlock didn’t give John a chance to back out of their planned trip to RHL by showing up at his door bright and early Saturday morning.  John answered the door still in his pyjamas and still half asleep.  

“I’m not doing a bloody thing this early,” John snapped as he wrenched the street door open.

“Not even for coffee?” Sherlock asked, putting on a winning smile.  He held out a to-go cup with steam gently wafting from the hole in the lid.

“Well, maybe for coffee,” John allowed, taking the cup.  He stepped away from the door to let Sherlock in.  “Come on up and make yourself comfortable while I get ready.”

Once they made it into the flat, Sherlock immediately started investigating John’s bookshelves instead of just taking a seat in one of the chairs to wait politely while John got himself ready.

“Don’t be shy,” John muttered, shaking his head.

“Hmm?”  Sherlock hummed.

“Won’t be a minute,” John said louder.  He shuffled back to his bedroom, sipping his coffee as he went, but stopped short in front of his wardrobe.  “Sherlock,” he shouted back into the living room, “What’re we doing?”

“Going to RHL,” Sherlock shouted back, sounding peeved by the seemingly stupid question.

John closed his eyes and sighed.  “To do what, exactly?” he called.

“Nothing illegal if that’s what you’re worried about,” Sherlock evaded.

“Oh for God’s sake,” John snapped at the clothes hanging benignly in front of him.  Still unsure, he finally just pulled on a pair of comfortably worn-in jeans and his favourite blue jumper. 

“I’m assuming casual is fine since you’re being so cagey about what we’ll be doing when we get there,” John said as he made his way back down the hall to rejoin Sherlock.

Sherlock turned back from where he’d been examining John’s rather hodgepodge collection of novels and smiled.  “Well, you know what they say about when you assume.”

“Oh, ha ha,” John retorted.  He jammed his wallet and phone into his pockets and grabbed his keys and coat.  “Ready?” he asked.

Sherlock snatched up his coat off the back of John’s usual chair and nodded.  “Let’s go, John.”

A relatively quick cab ride later, they found themselves once again at the door of RHL’s offices.  The leasing agent’s sign still hung in the window, but the RHL logo was still stencilled on the door.

“Hopefully they haven’t left yet,” John murmured as they made their way up to the door.

“They haven’t,” Sherlock answered confidently.  “If the property was under a new contract, part of the preparation would be forcing RHL to remove all of their branding from the property.”

“Oh, I guess so,” John shrugged.  “So how is this going to be any more fruitful than the last time we were here?”

Sherlock rang the bell and turned to smile at John.  “It will.”

John could not have been more surprised when, after a few minutes, William Morris poked his head out the door.

“Can I help--” he blinked at Sherlock and John.  “It’s you two again.”  He glared at John.  “Still looking for a graphics job, then?”

“I--”

“Why are they letting you answer the door?”  Sherlock demanded, cutting John off.

“What do you care?” William countered.  “And how did you know I’d be here?”

“Oh, you know how it is,” Sherlock answered flippantly as he breezed past William and into RHL’s offices.  “Is this where it all happens, then?” he tossed over his shoulder.

Whoever had decorated for RHL had apparently decided that slick modernity was not the way to attract customers.  A hodgepodge of desks that looked like they’d been excavated from an office furniture tip huddled together in the middle of an open-concept floor plan.  What they’d saved on office furniture, they’d definitely splurged on technology.  Each desk had a sleek laptop on it, and about half of them were sitting open, the programs humming smoothly to themselves.

John crowded up next to where Sherlock stood at one of the desks examining the progress of the open application.  “Sherlock,” he hissed, “What are we doing here?”

“Testing a theory,” he murmured as he reached into his coat pocket.

“A theory?” John muttered, “What theory?”

“Just what do you two want now?” William asked, apparently sufficiently recovered from the shock of seeing them turn up on his doorstep again.

“Having a look,” Sherlock evaded.  He whipped around to face William.  “Here all on your own?”

“As it happens, I’m not,” William snapped.  “Vince is here too, and since he was James’s immediate supervisor, you should probably talk to him instead of poking around at things that don’t belong to you.”  With that, William turned on his heel and headed towards one of the interior offices.  Just before he made it out of the room, he turned back and issued a final order.  “Wait here, and don’t touch anything.”

Sherlock made a show of backing away from the clump of desks and sitting himself on one of the benches in the entryway.  William nodded then turned and retreated back behind a door marked Private.

“What was that?” John asked, nodding to where William had vanished.

“He’s nervous,” Sherlock answered distractedly.  He had pulled out his phone and was poking industriously at the screen.

“Didn’t seem nervous,” John disagreed.  “Unless being a dick is a new sign of nerves.”

“Hardly new,” Sherlock muttered.  He tapped a few more times at his phone then pocketed it and looked up to meet John’s gaze.  “He’s hiding something, and it’s more than just trade secrets.”

“But if it’s not intellectual property, what’s he trying to hide that’s got him this worked up?”

The door at the end of the hallway banged open, cutting off Sherlock’s reply, and a man John assumed was Vince came barrelling down the hall to where they were sitting, extending his hand to Sherlock as he came.  “Sherlock Holmes!  James mentioned your name.  Said you were just the sort to help us with our little problem.”

John gaped between Sherlock and Vince as Sherlock stood and smiled graciously as Vince grabbed his hand and pumped it forcefully in greeting.  “I...yes, I’ve been known to be of service,” Sherlock answered hesitantly.  “Was there something in particular?  James didn’t mention you having any sort of problems the last time we spoke.”

“Oh, it’s nothing serious,” Vince waved Sherlock’s confusion away.  “More of a social problem, if I’m really honest.  Why don’t you step into my office and we can discuss it.  See if you can’t help a bloke out.”

“Certainly,” Sherlock answered, pasting his smile in place.  He motioned for John to follow, and they trailed Vince back through the outer workspace and into his private office.  

“Please, take a seat,” Vince offered and gestured them towards the seats in front of his desk with a welcoming smile.

Sherlock smiled thinly in response and perched on the edge of one of the chairs.  “So,” he started, “You said you needed my help?”

Vince dropped into his chair and regarded both of them with a wan smile.  “I do.”  He glanced at John then back to Sherlock.  “Before we go into the details, though, would it be too much to ask you both to sign a confidentiality agreement?  Trade secrets and all that, you know.”

Sherlock shrugged.  “As you like.”  

“Great,” Vince grinned.  He pulled open his desk drawer and extracted two sheets of paper printed with densely set, tiny text.  “It’s nothing too unusual,” he assured them, passing the forms over.  “Just to make sure you don’t scamper off with all our trade secrets.”

“Quite,” Sherlock muttered, skimming the page before scribbling his name across the bottom.  

John watched Sherlock sign before glancing back at the paper in front of him.  A quick scan seemed to confirm what Vince had said.  It did appear to be nothing more than the standard boilerplate about not stealing, trading, or selling intellectual property developed under RHL’s roof.  John smiled his thanks as Sherlock passed his pen over then bent to sign his own agreement.  

“Thanks,” Vince took the papers back from both of them and stashed them back in the drawer he’d pulled them from.  “So, Sherlock,” Vince leaned forward onto his arms.  “You’ve heard of Tellson’s, right?”

“The bank?” Sherlock clarified, arching an eyebrow in question.

“That’s the one,” Vince agreed.  “And you’re friends with Hugo Merryweather too, aren’t you?”

“We were at university together,” Sherlock conceded.

“Great!” Vince enthused.  “This is just perfect.  I was hoping you’d know him.  You two seem like you’d be great friends.”

John tried to hide his snort of laughter in a brief coughing fit.  Clearly this bloke knew nothing about the relationship between Hugo and Sherlock if he thought they were anything like good friends.  Sherlock shot a glare his direction, making John subside after clearing his throat one last time.

“So, here’s the thing,” Vince began, finally seeming to be circling around to his main point.  “Tellson’s got a huge digital security contract coming up for bid.  And I’d love to get RHL on the shortlist for it.”  

Sherlock blinked placidly at Vince, waiting for him to spit out what it was he actually wanted.

“So,” Vince rushed into Sherlock’s silence, “I was hoping you could...maybe...put in a good word with Hugo?”

“Why?” Sherlock asked with a dismissive shrug.  “I’ve absolutely no reason to believe RHL is anything more than a two-bit operation that’s unable to afford rent on the building they’re in.”

“I...two-bit operation?” Vince stammered.  “I’ll have you know we’re very good at what we do.  We’ve got some of the best graphics people around, and our coding people are pretty top notch too.”

Sherlock sighed.  “That’s just your trouble, though.  You’ve got an identity crisis.  Is it coding?  Or graphics and rendering?  You’re too small to be able to support both.”

Vince ducked his head and chuckled.  “I know it seems that way.”  He kept his gaze on his hands as he spread them against the desktop.  “RHL’s been in coding for a long time.  It’s not quite enough to make ends meet, though.  So George, my partner, he had the bright idea to expand into graphics.  It’s been slow to start, though.  Rendering servers are bloody expensive, you know.  And since he’s taken over the graphics side of things, he’s left me to run the coding arm.”  He fixed them both with a pleading stare when he spoke again.  “I’m a bit desperate.  We’re already losing our lease here, and we’ll need capital to get into a new building.  Until we can get the graphics fully operational, it’s all on me.”

Sherlock tilted his head, considering the issue.  John elbowed him in the ribs.  “Sherlock,” he whispered meaningfully and glanced over at Vince’s hopeful face.

“I could help you,” Sherlock said thoughtfully.  Vince shot a grateful grin in John’s direction.  “But,” he added, “You must understand my position.  I’m one of Hugo’s oldest friends.”  Vince’s grin faded.  “I don’t want to be responsible for recommending just anyone to him.  I’d need to know you had some sort of actual talent to back up your claims.”

“I’ve got a CV for other people we’ve contracted with,” Vince offered.  “I could give you a copy and you could pass it on to Hugo.”

“I certainly  _ could _ ,” Sherlock agreed.

“I’ll just go print you a copy,” Vince offered, jumping up.  “Won’t be a tick.  Wait here.”

As soon as he’d hurried out of the room, John rounded on Sherlock.  “I thought this place was a graphics firm.”

“We both did.”  Sherlock said.  “This does add an interesting new wrinkle, though, don’t you think?”

“I suppose?” John hedged.  “I’m just not sure what it is you’re trying to prove, though.”

Sherlock let his sigh convey his infinite patience.  “I am trying to determine the link between Duncan Ross, their dead employee, and Shad Sanderson’s missing money and, while I’m at it, I’m starting to wonder why William Morris has two jobs.”

“Because London’s sodding expensive,” John answered.  “You weren’t this worried about James having two jobs.”

“No, but  _ James _ doesn’t have a prior record for embezzlement.”  Sherlock shot back.

“A record for  _ what _ ?” John asked.  “Who’d he get--”

“Not now,” Sherlock snapped under the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Here we are,” Vince announced cheerfully.  “I actually updated our corporate CV last week.”  He passed a thin packet of paper over with a hopeful smile.  Sherlock took them and started flicking through the portfolio with an expression of studied neutrality on his face.  

After nearly a minute of silence broken only by the rustle of pages turning, Vince cleared his throat.  “Erm, let me know if I need to explain any of the technical lingo for you.”

Sherlock flicked his eyes up to meet Vince’s gaze.  “I’m quite alright, thank you.”

John smiled weakly at Vince as Sherlock went back to his reading.  “So, have you been doing financial coding long?”

“Oh, ages,” Vince responded.  “I’ve loved computers since I knew what they were.”

“And RHL?” John asked.

Vince leaned back in his chair, thinking.  “We’ve been trying to get into the financial game for about a year and a half.  It’s hard, though.  So many places only want a firm with experience.”  He shrugged and smiled, “But once you find one high profile client to take a chance on you, the rest start to follow.”

“Sure,” John agreed.  “And have you gotten any?  High profile clients.”

“Well,” Vince grinned, clearly pleased with himself, “You’ve heard of Shad Sanderson, right?”

John nearly choked.  “I...um...yeah.  Sherlock, you’ve got a mate who works there too, don’t you?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock hummed, resurfacing from his perusal of RHL’s corporate CV.

“I said, you’ve got a mate at Shad Sanderson,” John repeated.

Sherlock let the CV fall closed on his lap.  “I suppose you could call Seb my ‘mate.’  I’m much closer to Hugo though.”  He turned his attention back to Vince with a sharp smile.  “Could I take this with me to give to Hugo?  I think you may be just what he needs.”

“Would you?” Vince jumped up from his desk and hurried around to shake Sherlock’s hand.  “This is amazing.  If we land this, George’ll be absolutely thrilled.”

“I’ll make sure you get no less than the consideration you deserve,” Sherlock promised.  “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’ve got a few other business matters to take care of today, but I’ll make sure to pass this on to Hugo first thing Monday morning.”

Sherlock and John stood to leave, and Vince turned to show them out.  “I can’t thank you enough, Sherlock,” Vince enthused as they walked to the door.

“Don’t say too much,” Sherlock protested, pausing at the street door.  “I haven’t even got you anything yet.”

“I know,” Vince acknowledged, “But it’s a foot in the door I didn’t have this morning.”

“Fair enough,” Sherlock rose and extended his hand.  “Until next time, Mr. Spaulding.”

“Absolutely.  Thank you again.”  Vince pulled the door open for them.  “Have a good weekend!”

Sherlock smiled then turned to go in a flourish of coattails.  John smiled his own goodbye before following Sherlock down onto the street.  Sherlock already had a cab idling at the kerb for them, and he ushered John into the backseat.  

“What are you doing Monday night?” he asked without looking up from his phone.

“Washing my hair,” John quipped.

Sherlock’s eyes darted up from his phone to meet John’s, and he smiled when John winked at him.

“Nothing as far as I know,” he answered more seriously.  “Did you need a hand with something?”

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, considering.  “I very well might.”  He prodded at his phone a bit longer before speaking again.  “How do you feel about  _ The Threepenny Opera _ ?”

John shrugged.  “Dunno.  How should I feel about it?”

“Well, the music derivative, even for jazz, the story is contrived, and the whole thing reeks of heavy-handed deus ex machina.  It’s terrible.”  He pocketed his phone and smiled at John.  “Would you like to go with me Monday night?”

“Not if it’s as bad as you say it is,” John protested.  

Sherlock’s grin widened, “What if it were a means to a desirable end?”

“I...I suppose so,” John agreed.  He knew, intellectually, that this would be nothing more than another outing for casework, but he sighed to himself over the missed opportunities that could come with sitting in a darkened theatre with a handsome man.

“Excellent,” Sherlock cried.  He pulled his phone back out and dialled.  “Hugo?  Yes.  Yes, I think so.”  He listened for a moment.  “Well, no I don’t  _ know _ so, but the balance of probability rests in that direction.  It’s your job, you can take or leave what I’ve told you for whatever you want.”  Sherlock stabbed the end call button and jammed his phone into his pocket.  “Bankers,” he muttered.  They rode in silence a few minutes more, Sherlock scowling out the window and John watching him fume silently.

“So,” John began, trying to draw Sherlock back out, “Does us going to see  _ Threepenny Opera _ have anything to do with Hugo’s job at Tellson’s?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock mumbled from where he’d sunk down into his coat collar.  

“Anything I need to know?” John asked as they drew up in front of Sherlock’s flat.

“Curtain’s at seven thirty.”  Sherlock said, leaning forward to pay their driver.  “Don’t dress like you’ve just stumbled out of surgery.”  He got out of the cab and stalked towards his front door.  At the last moment he turned back to where John still stood on the pavement.  “And, you might want to bring that gun you think no one knows about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be out of the country for the next two weeks, so chapter 11 may be a bit late, but I'll do my best to get it to you ASAP!
> 
> As always, thank you thank you for reading, leaving kudos, and such kind comments.


	11. This Might Actually Be a Date

Monday night found John stood in front of his bathroom mirror fiddling anxiously with his shirt collar and trying to talk himself out of a stiff drink before the show.  “It’s just a night out,” he muttered to himself, finally getting his collar to lay straight.  A last glance in the mirror before switching off the light, and John rolled his eyes at his reflection.  “Don’t be an idiot.  You’re not his date.”   

In the sitting room, his phone pinged with an incoming text from its spot on the coffee table.  John scooped it up to read the message while he tugged his shoes on.

_ Do exercise caution.  Sherlock Holmes is more fragile than his temperament would imply.  M. _

John scowled down at his phone as he stabbed out a reply.

_ Not your concern.  Sherlock’s a grownup.  As am I. _

John jammed his phone in his pocket and tugged his coat on as he trotted down the stairs.

Once he got to 221, Mrs. Hudson opened the door to John’s knock.  “He’s just upstairs, dear.  Still trying to make himself presentable for your date tonight.”

“It’s not a date,” John answered, hoping the hint of wry laughter in his voice hid his lingering disappointment over Sherlock letting him down.  

“If you say so,”Mrs. Hudson replied, clearly dismissive of John’s denial.  John shook his head at her blind optimism then turned and escaped up the stairs to Sherlock’s flat.  

The door to the sitting room was ajar, but rather than simply burst in, John rapped softly on the door.  “Sherlock?” he called through the door.

“John?” the voice on the other side asked.  The sound of a couple of heavy steps, and Greg Lestrade pulled the sitting room door open.  “It’s Greg.  Lestrade.  We’ve met a couple of times with Sherlock.”

“Yeah, Greg, hi,” John answered.  “Of course I remember.  Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine,” Greg reassured him.  “Come on in.  Sherlock’s still poncing about getting ready,” he said, stepping back to let John in.  Instead of following John back to the couch, Greg dithered by the door, hesitating before he spoke again.  “Are...are you still planning on going out with Sherlock tonight?”

“It’s not a date,” John repeated his denial from earlier with a weary sigh.  He sat down on the edge of the sofa and regarded Greg warily.

“Didn’t say it was,” Greg retorted with a laugh.  “Although, something tells me neither of you would have minded too much if it was.”

John closed his eyes against the memory of Sherlock’s polite, but unequivocal, rejection weeks ago.  “No.  He seems pretty sure of what he wants, and whatever it is, it’s not me.”

“Oh, Christ, what’d he say?” Greg asked, plopping down on the sofa next to John.

John fiddled with the cuff of his shirt as he spoke. “Um...that he’s married to his work.”

Greg was silent for a moment before he replied.  “You know why he tells people that?” he asked, nudging John’s shoulder.  John shook his head, still refusing to meet Greg’s eye.  “It’s not that he’s not interested.  He’s just...well...you know how volcanoes can be?”

John stared uncomprehendingly at Greg.  “I think I’m going to need a bit more to go on.”

Greg grinned at John’s confusion.  “He’s the kind of bloke who’s--”

“You’re not trying to humanize me again, are you detective inspector?” Sherlock asked flippantly, pulling the cuff of his deep green shirt down over his watch as he swept into the sitting room.  He picked up his jacket from where it hung on the back of a desk chair and shrugged it on.  He caught Lestrade’s eye in the mirror over the mantel before he spoke again.  “I think you and I both are anxious to avoid a repeat of the last time you tried that, wouldn’t you agree?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Lestrade replied with a laugh, waving off Sherlock’s scowl.  

Sherlock picked up his phone and checked his notifications before slipping it in his pocket.  “Are you ready, John?”  John stood and nodded.  “Lestrade?”

“Are you sure this is the best way to do this?” Lestrade asked, rising and straightening his own jacket.  

Sherlock cut his gaze sharply to Lestrade’s face.  “If you have a better idea, I’d love to hear it,” he snapped.

Lestrade shrugged.  “It just seems a bit convoluted is all.”

“Can you make an arrest without evidence?” Sherlock demanded.  

“Well, no, but--”

“And as of this moment, do you have anything other than circumstantial evidence linking the permanent payroll of RHL to the money that’s been skimmed off from the cashpoint fee hikes?”

“Not yet, but--”

“So if we were able to spend two and a half hours in close proximity to both the target and the perpetrator, looking like we weren’t following them, but in actuality following them, and the only cost to us would be pedestrian music and a jarringly disjointed story, why wouldn’t we?”  

“Well, when you put it that way,” Lestrade muttered.  “So, will you two be gracing me with your presence on the way or should I just meet you at the theatre like the third wheel I am?”

“We’ll meet you there,” Sherlock replied. 

“Fine, fine.”  Lestrade turned to leave, but paused near the door and put his hand on John’s shoulder.  “I hope you know what you’re signing up for by dating this one.”

“It’s not…”John protested, verging on annoyed that Greg continued with this notion that he was in a relationship with Sherlock, but the sight of Sherlock’s stiff posture and guarded expression halted the words on his tongue.  He swallowed and quickly tried to regroup.  “It’s...ah...not that difficult,” he finished with a sheepish shrug.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shoved John out the door ahead of him.  “We’re going to be late if we keep standing here.”

Down on the street, Sherlock held the cab door open for John, and followed him into the vehicle with a small smile.  Once he’d given directions to their cabbie, he settled back into the seat with a soft sigh.  

“Why do we need Greg to go to a show?”  John asked, hoping to start the evening on a positive note.

“Who?” Sherlock looked genuinely lost.  

“Greg…” John repeated with a confused look.  “Your DI friend.”

“Oh, Lestrade.  Because we might need someone with actual law enforcement authority,” Sherlock answered with a roll of his eyes, clearly unimpressed with Lestrade’s credentials.

John laughed and shook his head.  “Are you always like this with people?”

“Like what?” Sherlock asked.

“You know, all bossy and mysterious,” John replied.

Sherlock darted his eyes to the window, but chuckled as he answered.  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, leave off,” John said laughing.  “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”  

Sherlock turned back from the window and his smile was small, but genuine, when he caught John’s eye.  “I can only be what I am, John.”

John licked his lips before he opened his mouth to reply.  “You...you shouldn’t have to be anything else.”

Sherlock’s eyes softened even further, and he seemed to gather himself to respond, but the jolt of the cab’s brakes stopped him.  He turned to glance out the window, but John didn’t miss the pink that stained his cheeks as he turned away.  Unlike the aftermath of their conversation from two weeks ago, John felt a small flare of hope.  Deferring was not the same as denying.

“Here’s fine,” Sherlock called to the cabbie, pulling cash out of his wallet.  “Come on, John,” Sherlock said, turning back to John.  “We’ve got a show and a robber to catch.”

“So what, exactly, am  _ I _ doing here?” John demanded as they joined the queue at the box office.

Sherlock’s lips quirked into a half smile.  “Night out.  Next question.”

“Does this have anything to do with these banks?”  John asked.

“Obviously,” Sherlock griped then turned away from John and stepped forward to collect their tickets.  

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s back.  “Git,” he muttered without heat.

Sherlock handed John his ticket as they made their way inside.  “I hope you’re ready for this.”

“I think so,” John replied with a shrug.  “I mean, I’ve been out of the service and the dating scene for a bit, but I’m pretty sure I’m ready for action on both fronts.”  As soon as the words left his mouth, John blushed to the roots of his hair.  “I’m...that...god, please just ignore that,” he stuttered, waving his hand to dismiss his ill chosen words like so many flies.

Sherlock chuckled warmly.  “I didn’t realize your idea of a good date involved the possibility of violence and the company of detective inspectors from the Met and stuck up former classmates of mine.”

“Oh shut up,” John groused, shoving at Sherlock’s shoulder.  “Everyone’s been going on at me about this being a date…power of suggestion, I guess.”

“Well, far be it from me to dislodge  _ that _ suggestion if it’s gotten stuck in your head,” Sherlock murmured, ducking his head to try to hide his answering shy smile with a check of his watch.  John grinned to himself at Sherlock’s reaction.  Reticence wasn’t out and out rejection.

“So tell me,” John said, nudging Sherlock to bring his attention back, “What have you figured out about all this mess while I’ve been buried at work?”

Sherlock laughed softly.  “I’ve figured out that Hugo’s an idiot.”

“Why?” John asked.  “I mean, apart from the obvious,” he added with a chuckle and a gesture in Sherlock’s direction.  

Sherlock rolled his eyes in response, but his accompanying smile was genuine.  “You already know RHL wants a contract with Tellson’s,” Sherlock pointed out, trying to return to the topic at hand.  John hummed in agreement, letting him.  “Well, they’ve already submitted a sample of their work.”

“Is that why Hugo called you in the first place?”  John asked.  Sherlock nodded.  “Then why did Vince want you to give Hugo RHL’s resume?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “Second round interview, I would think.  Raise his stock.”

“I feel like there’s a ‘but’ somewhere in there,” John remarked.

“There is,” Sherlock stated clearly pleased John had picked up on the inconsistencies.  “But--”

“Curly Locks!”  A man with the smarmiest smile John had ever seen appeared at Sherlock’s side and promptly threw his arm around Sherlock’s neck and tugged him into a choking embrace.  “God, mate, I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“Hugo.”  Sherlock’s smile became rather more of a grimace as he worked his way out of Hugo’s grip.  “I don’t think you’ve changed a bit.”

“Well, you’d know, Sherly,” he responded with a rather sharp looking chuck on Sherlock’s shoulder.  He turned to John with his next words, “So, how do you know Curly Sherly?”

John swallowed the answer he’d given Mike and Greg about misdelivered heads and instead went with, “We’re friends.”

“Colleagues,” Sherlock murmured, a seeming reflex.

Hugo looked back and forth between them, trying to figure out which title he believed.  After a moment’s hesitation, he barked out the phoniest laugh John had ever heard and clapped him on the shoulder. John winced as Hugo’s hand landed heavily on his bad shoulder. “Either way, he’s a right freak, isn’t he?”

“I don’t know if I would say ‘freak,’” John hazarded, trying to play nice for Sherlock’s sake.

“Of course he is,” Hugo continued as if Sherlock wasn’t standing right there.  “Has he done his little trick for you yet?  He did it all the time at school.  It used to get the wind up everyone at uni when he’d--”

“Point out it’s almost show time?” Sherlock asked blithely.

John slipped out of Hugo’s reach and checked his watch.  “So it is.  Should we go find our seats, Sherlock?” he suggested in an effort to spare Sherlock from more of Hugo’s condescension.

Sherlock nodded and gestured John to go ahead of him into the theatre.  John used the relative privacy of having his back to both Hugo and Sherlock to pray that somehow Hugo wouldn’t be sitting with them.  Hugo’s casual dismissal of Sherlock’s cleverness and his assumption that John would automatically agree with him about Sherlock’s perceived shortcomings grated on his nerves, making him twitchy and short tempered.

John experienced a brief jolt of satisfaction when Hugo filed into the row behind them instead of next to them.  “Couldn’t get three seats together?” he asked softly as they took their seats.

“Unfortunately not,” Sherlock answered, his voice regretful but his face completely deadpan.  John met his eye, and after a second they both burst into quiet laughter.

“So, Sherly, what’s the plan?” Hugo asked, leaning forward between their seats.

Sherlock sobered instantly.  “Assuming you’ve done what I asked, just watch the show until something happens.”

“Well I  _ have _ , so then what?” Hugo pressed.

“ _ If _ you have, then RHL should be able hold up their end of this deal, and once they do, the police will move in and do what they do best,” Sherlock answered evenly.  He pulled out his phone and silenced it then turned the screen’s brightness as low as he could.  He laid it on his knee just as the house lights went down.

John couldn’t help but glance over at Sherlock during the opening notes of the overture, and he smiled at Sherlock’s grimace in response to the score.  Sherlock leaned his right arm on the armrest between them and used his hand to obscure most of his screen’s leftover glare from their neighbours, and every so often, he’d glance down and scroll through the output on the screen.

John leaned in and whispered against Sherlock’s ear, “So what are we waiting for?”

Sherlock scrolled a bit more before he answered.  “The final proof,” he breathed.

John wrinkled his nose in confusion.

“Vince Spaulding,” Sherlock reminded him.

“That guy from RHL?” John asked, returning his eyes to the stage.

Sherlock nodded in confirmation.  “He’s got a bit more going on than a simple programming firm,” Sherlock whispered, leaning into John’s space.  “He’s…” Sherlock drummed his fingers idly against John’s wrist as he thought.  “He fancies himself a new breed of criminal.”

“How so?”  John leaned towards Sherlock to better hear his answer.

Sherlock perked up as he glanced down at his phone. He highlighted a huge section of the information scrolling past on his phone, shifted it into a text, and sent it off.  “Computerized bank robbery,” he answered, shuffling lower in his seat to resume their whispered conversation.

“What--”

“Not now,” Sherlock cut him off with a quick shake of his head.  “I’ll tell you everything during the interval.”  John nodded and settled back into his seat.  

For the rest of the first half, John tried to focus on the show, but the play might as well have actually been in German for all the sense he was able to make of it.  Instead, the gentle press of Sherlock’s arm against his shoulder and the soft rustle of his suit jacket brushing John’s shirt held his attention much more completely.  The closer they got to the interval, the more Sherlock started to shift in his seat.  Fingers occasionally drumming gently against his knee and the armrest had become his knee jiggling against John’s in time with the music.

When the lights came up, Sherlock stood and eyed his phone one more time before he pocketed it and turned to John with a self-satisfied smirk.  “Would you like to help arrest a bank robber?”

“I...sure,” John replied with an answering grin.

“What do you have for me, Sherls?” Hugo interrupted, leaning up between them.

Sherlock’s smile froze in place as he turned to face Hugo.  “Not much.  Should be enough to solve your little problem, though, so we should be making tracks.”

“Good,” he answered.  “Let’s get to it, then.  I’m looking for a promotion, so I don’t need any of this unpleasantness making it more difficult.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed, heading for the lobby.  

John caught up with him just as they reached the doors to the lobby.  “ _ His _ unpleasantness is probably making it difficult enough,” he murmured.

Sherlock burst out laughing.  “Perceptive as always, John.”  He handed their tickets to the woman working the coat check.  His phone started ringing while they waited, and he fished it out of his coat pocket with a frown.  “Lestrade?  Have you found Vince?”  Sherlock paused briefly to listen to Lestrade, and when he responded, he sounded surprised.  “He’s not alone?  I knew he had a partner named George, but I didn’t think...”  He trailed off to listen intently to Lestrade’s answer on the other end.  “Well, you’re welcome, I suppose.  Yes, we’ll be there shortly.”  

Sherlock stabbed the end call button and whirled on Hugo with a manic glint in his eye. “It seems I’ve done both you and Lestrade a bit of a favour with this one.”  He turned to John and smiled brightly.  “Shall we go see what Vince and his partner have been up to at Tellson’s tonight?”

John tugged on his coat and buttoned it before he nodded to Sherlock.  “Lead on.  I was promised front row seats to stopping a robbery after all.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE, when you go to a show, don't think Sherlock's appalling manners of having his phone out and on is in any way okay.
> 
> Goodness gracious, I've been awfully slow getting this to you. I am SO sorry. Real life has conspired to kick my butt the past month.
> 
> Also, the end is nigh; just one more chapter to wrap this thing up. All of your kudos, bookmarks, and comments mean the absolute world to me.


	12. Robbing Banks and Stealing Hearts

Sherlock swept into the lobby of Tellson’s like he owned it, but drew up short at the sight of Lestrade and Donovan standing next to Vince Spaulding and George Clay, who were both handcuffed and scowling.  “Lestrade, is there a reason you’re still standing here with your perpetrators instead of scurrying off to book them into custody?”

Lestrade rolled his eyes.  “I was waiting on you.  I’m fairly certain the lads in fraud won’t take ‘my nutter of a consultant said so’ as a good reason for me bringing them two apparently unconnected men in from off the street.”

“Three,” Sherlock corrected, tapping frenetically at his phone.  He looked up.  “And they’re not from off the street.  They’re from out of a bank.”

“You sarcastic sod,” Lestrade snapped.  “It’s not that simple, and you know it.”  He paused, and Sherlock’s correction seemed to catch up with him.  “Wait, what do you mean, three?”

Sherlock bypassed Lestrade and walked straight up to Vince Spaulding.  “Tell me, was William Morris in on your little...scheme...from the beginning or did you target him after you’d latched onto James?”

Vince chuckled mirthlessly.  “Do you know how easy it is to find a young, out-of-work programmer and pay him next to nothing to use him to scout potential marks and their system security?”

“Quite the little party trick,” Sherlock agreed humourlessly.  He directed his next words to Lestrade, “Two of your least irritating officers should be arresting William Morris right about…” two uniformed officers emerged from the bowels of the bank with William Morris between them.  “Now.”

Lestrade stepped away to direct his officers to escort their three prisoners to the backs of the pandas parked in front of the bank, and John assumed from the sudden brightness in Lestrade’s tone as he addressed his officers that whatever evidence they’d gotten had proved quite conclusive.  John nudged Sherlock’s arm.  “How’d you know?”

“Hmm...oh, that William was involved?” Sherlock queried.  John nodded.  “Two reasons.  When I was poking around his computer I saw that he had Vince in his frequent contacts, and I retraced his digital steps using the data from the keylogger and I traced some of that flagged money into his account.”

Lestrade ended his conversation and rejoined them, looking very pleased.  “So, come on, how’d you know they’d be here?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “Data analysis.”  

John let out a snort of laughter, but quickly smothered it with a cough when Sherlock glared at him.

“As I was saying,” Sherlock continued, returning his attention to Lestrade.  “I’ve been analysing the correlation between the employment history for both Jabez and RHL, the keystroke data coming out of both firms, and both companies’ relationships with the banks who have experienced precipitous ATM fee increases by--”

“Oh, Sherly, I knew you’d sort this out quick like a bunny,” Hugo called, striding across the lobby.  He stopped in front of Sherlock, John, and Lestrade, and gave the three of them a disinterested once-over.  “Nothing actually got stolen, did it?  And you did get the right people?  You know it’s my backside on the line for trusting you, right?”

“Mmm, no, I hadn’t heard,” Sherlock deadpanned.  “Please, do tell me--”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade interrupted.  “You mentioned employment history?”

Sherlock turned back to Lestrade with a frown.  “Yes, employment history.  Isn’t it obvious?”

“Well humour me,” Lestrade answered.

“Have you bothered to actually look at these three?” Sherlock asked, pointing out towards the pandas.  “Or even Duncan Ross, for that matter.”

“They’re all blokes, for one,” Lestrade offered.

“They’re all...what...no,” Sherlock spluttered, whirling on the spot in his frustration.  “The academy does teach you how to look at a crime scene analytically, don’t they?”  Sherlock demanded.

“Yeah, thanks, and?” Lestrade shot back.

Sherlock called up RHL’s website on his phone and started flipping through their employee bio page.  “Look.  Every single one of these men is a ginger with hair vivid enough to be the subject of a Titian painting.”

“Could just be a coincidence,” Lestrade defended.

“Do you think I spent hours testing red hair dye because of a coincidence?”  Sherlock demanded.  “Do you think Duncan Ross getting himself tattooed with an orange cat is a coincidence?”

“Tattoo?” Lestrade asked, breaking into Sherlock’s rant.

“Oh, surely you haven’t forgotten?” Sherlock demanded scathingly.  He scrolled back through his photos then shoved his phone under Lestrade’s nose a second time.  

“It’s an orange cat in a top hat,” Lestrade confirmed.  He looked up from the image on the screen at Sherlock.  “So what?”

Sherlock closed his eyes trying to summon his patience then let Lestrade feel the full force of his frustration. “Did it occur to you to to take the images of Duncan Ross’s tattoo work down to the organized crime unit to see if they could shed some light on the symbolic significance of tattooing in criminal circles?”

“Didn’t have time,” Lestrade snapped back.  “These robberies and this murder have been keeping everyone working all hours.”

“And surely a bit of extra knowledge about the victim wouldn’t have helped,” Sherlock retorted.

“Sherlock,” John interrupted, “shouting at Lestrade isn’t helping.”  Sherlock rolled his eyes.  John sighed.  “Since we’re clearly all missing something you’re not, why don’t you take us through it?”

Sherlock took a deep breath.  “Fine.”  He passed John his phone that still had the images of Ross’s tattoos pulled up.  “Prison tattoos tend to have a secondary meaning.  The star.  Usually indicates the wearer is higher up in his organisation.  Think captain.  The cat’s a bit more slippery, but pickpockets and thieves tend to favour it.  The ginger colour should be self-explanatory, but just in case it’s not, the cat is a ginger because Ross is a ginger.  Now the bowtie.  This one’s even trickier, but it’s significantly newer than the rest of the art.  The most commonly understood meaning is that a cat with a bowtie indicates a traitor.”  

“So what?” John asked.

“This is what,” Sherlock replied.  He shifted his attention to Lestrade.  “Lestrade, what did you find when you arrived?”

“Yes, what did you find?” Hugo parrotted.  

John ducked his head to try to hide his laughter, but Sherlock caught John’s eye and they shared a smirk.

“A laptop that we can verify belongs to RHL Graphics was hooked into one of Tellson’s servers and some sort of download was happening.  So our cyber crime unit took a look at it, and they could determine it appeared to be altering the code governing ATM function to charge customers more and skim the money into a private account, so we made an arrest.”

“And this is why you’re the best of a bad lot,” Sherlock praised.  “If I put all the pieces in front of you in the order they belong, you can usually be trusted to put them together all by yourself.”

“Oh, gee, thanks,” Lestrade sniped back.  

“Well, this seems all settled,” Hugo said with a self-satisfied nod.  “Sherls, you and your...mate...should probably clear out and let the police do their job.  I’ve got call my boss and let him know I’ve stopped a robbery.”

“Wait, that you’ve stopped a robbery?” John demanded, incredulous.

“I’m the one who got the police involved,” Hugo answered.

“No, you’re the one who got Sherlock involved,” John corrected.

“Well, he didn’t do what I hired him for; the police beat him to it,” Hugo replied.  He turned to Sherlock before John could protest again.  “I hope you understand, buddy, but I can’t pay when services haven’t been rendered.”

Sherlock scowled at Hugo then turned back to Lestrade.  “Do you have everything you need for now?”  

Lestrade tucked his notebook and pen into his jacket pocket. “I think so, but I’ll ring you tomorrow to finalise your statement.”

Sherlock jerked his head in a short nod.  “Until tomorrow, then.”  

John watched Sherlock smile and shake hands with Lestrade and exchange a perfunctory farewell with Hugo before they each went their separate ways.  “I can’t believe you’re going to let him get away without paying you,” John muttered mutinously as they pushed through the front doors of the bank and back onto the street.

Sherlock shrugged.  “I’ve solved two rather interesting puzzles.  That’s more reward than a cheque.”

“Yeah, but a cheque’s not bad,” John replied.  “Pays the rent a hell of a lot better than personal satisfaction.”

“I do also know that boss Hugo keeps harping on about.  He’s an old family friend,” Sherlock said thoughtfully.  “He might be pleased to know how his employee handles these sorts of things.”

John burst out laughing.  “Please do.  Hugo needs to be taken down a peg or twelve.”  

They walked a little further in silence before John worked up the nerve to speak again, hoping he could prolong the evening just a little longer.  “This puzzle thing.  You really are quite brilliant at it.”

Sherlock’s gaze darted down to the pavement and he smiled shyly as they reached the corner.  “Dinner?” he asked, deflecting the compliment.

John’s answering grin lit up his whole face.  “Starving.”

“Good,” Sherlock said with a nod.  “I know a place.  Stays open late and the manager always gives me extra portions.”

“Lead on then,” John replied.

They ambled back towards the Strand, where Sherlock found them a cab and ushered John into the back seat.  They rode most of the way back to Baker Street in a contented silence, but John’s reverie broke when he felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket.  He fished it out and groaned at the text sitting in his inbox.

_ Thanks for your help tonight.  If he’s taking you to the chippy on the far end of Marylebone, go get some!  Greg _

Sherlock glanced over at John’s phone.  “Is it your judgmental ex-wife?”

“Is it my what?...No!” John sputtered, jamming his phone back into his pocket.  “It’s Greg.  With some well-intentioned, but not necessarily subtle, advice.”

“Oh.”  Sherlock paused for a moment before he spoke again, “May I see it?”

John blushed bright red.  “I don’t think so.”

“Must be about sex then,” Sherlock murmured with a small smirk.  

John gaped at Sherlock, trying to come up with a suitable reply, but the squeal of brakes as their cab drew up to the kerb stopped him.  They had stopped in front of a miniscule restaurant with a fish-shaped neon sign advertising the shop’s specialty.  Sherlock turned to John.  “Shall we, doctor?”

John nodded, thankful Sherlock seemed to be willing to let him drop the subject, at least for the time being.  Sherlock shooed him out of the cab towards the door.  John smiled at the smaller, hand-painted advert on the window promising that this was the best chippy in NW1.

Inside the shop, a burly man hustled out from behind the till and came and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder, grinning widely the whole time.  “Sherlock!  Good to see you!  I feel like you haven’t been around in ages.”  

“It hasn’t been that long,” Sherlock retorted with a pleased smile that belied heat in his tone.

“Post case?” he asked, dragging Sherlock along with him back towards the register.

“Yes.  Just finished, in fact,” Sherlock answered.

Their host released Sherlock’s elbow and rounded back behind the counter.  He slapped his palms down on the formica and regarded Sherlock with raised eyebrows.  “You’ll want your usual then?”  

Sherlock nodded.  “Yes, thanks, Jerome.”  Sherlock gestured to John.  “He’ll probably want something too.”

Jerome turned to John and gifted him with the same bright smile.  “You must be the new friend,” he said, his smile taking on a suggestive edge.  “I’ve heard a lot about you.”  Sherlock rolled his eyes, but Jerome just ignored him.  He pointed to the small notice board advertising their specials.  “I’d go with the haddock, myself.  ‘S seemed a bit fresher today.”

John nodded as he answered, “Yeah, I’ll have that.  Ta.”

Jerome jotted down their orders and glanced at John before he winked at Sherlock and added, “Extra portions for you and your friend.”  He disappeared into the kitchen with a shouted, “Be out in a tick.”

In the ringing silence that followed, Sherlock shucked his coat and tossed it over the back of a chair.  He didn’t move to sit, but instead stood and fiddled with the hem of his suit jacket.  John, who had collapsed into the chair opposite Sherlock’s coat, watched him a moment before he opened his mouth.  “So does every restaurant operator in London owe you a favour?”

Sherlock chuckled and shook his head.  “Not even remotely.”

John jerked his chin in the direction of the kitchen and Jerome’s cheerful whistling.  “So what was it with him?  Get him off a murder charge?”

“Much more ordinary, I’m afraid,” Sherlock answered.  “I helped him hang some shelves.”

“Oh, did you now?” John sniggered.  “And how did that go?”

Sherlock smiled wryly and nodded.  “Mmm.  I did.”  He shrugged.  “For what it was, it went well.”

“Good.  I...that’s good.”  John licked his lips and leaned back in his chair. 

Jerome bumped the kitchen door open, hands full with their dinner.  “Here we are, then.”  He dropped them on the counter and grinned at Sherlock pulling cash out of his wallet.  “Now you know our deal,” he scolded with mock seriousness.

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock groused, replacing his wallet, but still surreptitiously slipping a fiver into the tip jar.  “I don’t know why you insist we keep doing this.”

He laughed as he pushed the boxes toward Sherlock.  “You know exactly why.  I wouldn’t have ended up where I am now without you.”

“And how is Natalie?” Sherlock asked, pulling on his coat and picking up their food.

“She’s doing great...keeps nosing around my sock drawer, so I’m going to have to do something about that.”

“You could just propose to her like you’ve been planning to for two months now,” Sherlock suggested with a hint of laughter.

“I could,” he agreed with a nod.  He fixed Sherlock with a hopeful look.  “You’ve given her the once over.  You think she’ll have me?”

Sherlock passed John his dinner and gave Jerome a final smile.  “I’m sure she will.  Goodnight, Jerome.”

“‘Night, Sherlock,” he called after them.

Back on the street, Sherlock turned towards Baker Street and started ambling in the direction of his flat.  As they walked, Sherlock opened his polystyrene container and popped a chip in his mouth.  John fell in step with him, digging into his own dinner since Sherlock apparently didn’t feel the need to stand on any sort of ceremony.

“So, Natalie,” John started.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Nothing like you’re thinking.  She was a witness to a mugging a bit up the road.  Once the police were finished with her, she looked like she could use a bit of food, so I suggested Jerome’s place.”  

“How’d that go, then?”  John asked.

Sherlock laughed at the memory.  “Terribly.  She thought it was a date.  Jerome was much more of a gentleman than I could ever hope to be.  The rest is, apparently, history.”

John shook his head and chuckled at the absurdity of the whole situation.  “Why do you do this?  Why do you wander around this city and solve crimes and oh, by-the-way fix people up and dye a bunch of heads ginger as an experiment and everything else?”

Sherlock looked down at his food and sighed, suddenly serious.  “It keeps the gas on and keeps me from going out of my head too frequently.”

“Does that happen a lot?” John asked.

“Less now,” Sherlock admitted.  “Lestrade can be irritatingly insistent about ‘standards for consultants’ and all that rot.  And I’ve been reliably informed by Mrs. Hudson that ‘no one wants to be around a sarcastic, antisocial so-and-so.’”

John bumped Sherlock with his shoulder.  “I wouldn’t worry, if I were you.  Personally, I like not being coddled or stared at for a change.”  Sherlock shot him a questioning look, and John shrugged.  “You know how it is when you’re struggling.  Everyone wants to pry, but they don’t want to look like they’re prying...”  

“So they try to cover it with more socially acceptable noises of concern that do nothing to actually help,” Sherlock finished.

“Exactly!” John agreed.  “It’s bloody exhausting, let me tell you.”

Sherlock chuckled.  “Well, then, I suppose you’re fortunate that I will never have the patience for that sort of run-around.”

John re-closed his dinner as they slowed to a stop in front of 221.  “Look, Sherlock,” he said, frowning down at the blank white polystyrene lid to slow his racing thoughts before he finally looked up to meet Sherlock’s questioning stare.  “I know the last time we were here I made everything awkward as arse, and, well, I’m sorry.”

Sherlock held his gaze while John spoke, but he let his eyes drop when John fell silent.  Instead of speaking right away, Sherlock dug his fingernail into the foam of his lid and watched his thumbnail carve a canyon through the lid with a soft squeal.  “You needn’t be,” he finally said.  “I’m not...opposed to what you were offering, but I’m not certain I would be an...ideal...person for a romantic entanglement.”

John reached out and put his hand over Sherlock’s to halt his progress perforating the lid of his dinner.  “Is this about the drugs?” John asked, cutting straight to the heart of the theory that had been nagging him since his strange visitor.

“I’ve been reliably informed that romantic relationships too soon into recovery can become more of a crutch than a tool,” Sherlock answered, still staring at their joined hands.

John quirked Sherlock a small smile.  “Well, I’m not suggesting we jump straight into some kind of serious thing.  There’s a huge gap between something like taking a walk together with a few kisses and marriage.”  John answered.  He shrugged.  “But...what’s wrong with seeing where the road leads?”

Sherlock finally looked up and met John’s gaze.  “It would depend, I would imagine, on how fast one were to travel said road.  The autobahn is quite different from a two-lane backroad, after all."

John’s smile grew.  “You know, the funny thing about being in the same car with someone, you can talk to them.”

Sherlock broke into a low chuckle.  “Could we please dispense with this exceedingly overtaxed analogy?”  

John laughed and nodded.  He gently squeezed Sherlock’s hand before letting it go.  “Don’t feel like you have to say anything right away.  Just...just think on it?”

“I feel it only fair to tell you, I have been ‘thinking on it’ since the last time we found ourselves here.”  Sherlock answered.  He bent and set the remainder of his dinner down on the stoop with a tiny nod.  

John set his own container down and swiped his tongue across his lips as he watched Sherlock straighten back to standing.  Once he’d stilled, John waited one moment more, gauging Sherlock’s receptiveness, then, when he was sure, John leaned into Sherlock’s space and kissed him.  He could taste the fading tang of the malted vinegar Sherlock had put on his chips and he could feel the soft puff of Sherlock’s breath against his cheek.  

Their kiss didn’t last long, and Sherlock pulled away first, but to John’s relief, he didn’t go far.  “I’m...that was…” Sherlock struggled to find words.

John huffed a laugh.  “Alright?”

Sherlock nodded.  “Mmm, quite.”  He studied John’s face a moment more before he took a small step back.  “I should...it’s a bit late…”

John took a step back himself and smiled.  “You’re right.  It’s getting late, and I for one have work tomorrow.”  He picked up the rest of his dinner, jammed his free hand into his coat pocket, and turned to head for his own flat.  At the kerb, he paused and looked back.  “See you around, Sherlock Holmes.”  

John had to stop himself from skipping across Baker Street and back to his flat.  Once he made it inside, he locked the street door behind himself and leaned against it, catching his breath and catching up to himself.  Sherlock’s look of pleased surprise rose back up in front of him and he chuckled at the strange twists and turns of the whole evening.  At the top of the stairs, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, and when he pulled it out, a text from Sherlock was waiting on his lockscreen.

_ Until next time, Doctor Watson. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so sorry this final chapter has taken so long to get to you. My summer went into a bit of a tailspin right after I published Chapter 11, and I've just now caught back up to myself. But it is HERE...it is FINISHED
> 
> Now, to the important part...the thank-yous:
> 
> Kestrel337...without you this would have sputtered out in the first half. I could not ask for a more wonderful person to work through characterization, plotting, and even just snarking over the Olympics together.
> 
> You, my lovely readers...a HUGE thank-you to each and every one of you who have read, left kudos, bookmarked, subscribed, and commented. Every time I publish something, seeing your enthusiasm reenergizes me to write the next thing for you to devour and enjoy.

**Author's Note:**

> My plan is to update this every two weeks. Hopefully Robert Burns won't pop up from a hedgerow and start shouting at me about "The best laid plans of mice and men."


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